


























aV , ^ \jn^ C‘ V 


A 






I 


y%. \ 

i * * ' 

<► 'P 

<S 



^ 0 
A' . ^ ^ 

* ^ V * ^ o 0 ^ 



o'^ ^ ' ” ' * “ " ° ’ v*'^ '^' * 




'^' ^ . 0 -' 

> ® ' . s ^ " 






^'' ' » >? '^o 

o 


0 « x 



, 0 N c "<;p 

CP «» c^ ^ 

k 


. ,. ° o '- -^ rf . " 1 #^^= <^1 

^ \^ ^ (? I A ^ ^ 0 t< 

^Wy)x'" .r .S' 



' x'*^ *‘‘^Wo ^ 

f .t(\'^#A. ''. .‘■^ » -Px. ., ’■.S, 

t/* 1 < V 


fr 1 




^ - ■‘b o'* ° 

^ -fa- 

‘ » ’ V ^ ’■o 

V '»- ^ ^ 


. S < \ 

/ ■'o 

a"* ? fi(f^ * 


o 0 


a'' 

■ ' V i 

^ \ 

jy ’^-'WV'^JT-' A’ 

(;^* ^ >v>^ O,* ^ 

. ^:o V- ^1 



o ♦ ., K 0 ’ 

'-- V » ' 

^ SP, 




O' s'' _ 

vv ^ ^ ‘Sira " .^?v 

A'^^ %„ '. 

•^- ' « , . * A*^ „ « c "k ' 

cP' JL ^ 



V ♦ 


^ ^ o' 


O’ 


3 N 0 


'Of ,<P . 


A^ 

" ^ C,’> ^ 

o o 

- ^ ^ 

r.- •b, . ' 5 .'^' °o 

k. '«•'■'* A*^^ O N C . . ' ' • » k 















m. 106. Parti. 


IS 





V^*^*‘iV*'/^«***VV***-‘*^*rA^^*’*NV' 


Wjj^iBLrLsirn 


^^asM 


:)EVOTED TO THE BEST CURRENT S< STANDARD LITERATURE 


Annual Subscription. $25.00 


COPYRIGHT 188S BY JOHN W. LOVELU COMPANY 


DUNALLAN 


Know What You Judge 


Part I, 


^^CrE-lA^ 


UCK3^ 


GRACE KENNEDY, 


NEW YORK ; 

AY. LOVELL COAIPANY 

14 & 16 Vesey Stkp:et. 


JOHN 


TTTTTmTnTiTrrrrrrrnTTmTrTTrrrrrrti F ~ i riMi nT^ 


rnTTi'rTrrTTnTTn i m u 1 1 1 n 1 1 1 n 1 1 r 






]||t|niiiHii«ifflnnnimiinHWiii«fflWiHtt^^ 


i 



LOVELL’S LIBRARY 

NUMBERS NOW READY ; 


1. Hyperion, by Longfellow. 

2 . Outre-Mer, by Longfellow. 

8. The Happy Boy, by Bjornson, - 
4. Arne, by BjOmson, - - - 
.5. Frankenstein, by Mrs. Shellej', 

6. The Last of the Mohicans, 

7. Clytie, by Joseph Hatton, 

8. The Moonstone, by Collins Pt. T 

h. Do. Partll, - - r 

10. Oliver Twist, by Dickens, - 

11. The Coming Race : or the New 

Urojiia, by Lord Lytton, 

12. Lelia : or the Siege of Granada, 

13. The Three Spaniards, Walker, 

14. The Tricks of the Greeks Un- 

veiled, by Robert Hondin, - 

15. L'Abbe Constantin, by Halevy, 

16. Freckles, by R. F. Redcliff. 

17. "Ehe Dark Colleen, - 

18. They Were Married ! - 

19. Seekers after God, by Farrar. 

20. The Spanish Nun, 

21. The Green Mountain Boys. 

22. Fleurette, by Eugene Scrilio, - 

23. Second Thoughts, 

24. The New Magdalen, by Collins. 

25. Divorce, by Margaret Lee, 

26. Life of Washington, - 
Social Etiquette, 

28. Single Heart afid Double Face, 

29. Irene; or tlip Lonely Manor, 

,30. Vice Versa, by F Anstey, 

31. Ernest Maltravers, by Lytton, - 
,32. The Haunted House, and Cal- 
deron the Courtier, Lytton - 
,33. John Halifax, by Miss Muloek, 
34. 800 Leagues on the Amazon 
.35. The Cryptogram,by J ules V erne, 
,36. Life of Marion, 

37. Paul and Virginia, 

.38, Tale of Two Cities, by Dickens, 
,39. The Hermits, bj" Kingsley, 

40. An Adventure in O'liiile. and 

Marriage of Moira Fergus. - 

41. A Marriage in High Life, - 

42. Robin, by Mrs. PiM-r • - ^ 

43. Two on a Tower, by Hardy, 

44. Tlasselas, by Samuel , Johnson. - 

45. Alice; or the Mysteries, being 

Part II of Ernest Maltravers, 

48. Duke of Kandos, by A. Mathey, 
47^ Baron Munchausen - 

48. A Princess of Thule. - 

49. The Secret Despatch, Grant. 

50. Early Days of Christianity, by 

Canon Farrar, I). I)., Parti 
“ “ -II', 

51. Vicar of Wakeftc Id - - 

.52. Progress and Poverty, 


.20 

5.3. 

.20 

54. 

.10 

5.5. 

.10 

56. 

.10 


.20 

57. 

.20 

58. 

.10 

59; 

.10 

60. 

20 

61, 


02. 

.10 


.10 


.20 

G.3. 


64. 

.20 


'.20 

65. 

.20 

66. 

.20 

6<'. 

.10 

' 

.20 

68. 

.10 

60. 

.20 

70. 

.20 

71. 

.20 

72. 

.20 ' 

IP 

.20 

71. 

.20 

75. 

.15- 

76. 

.10 

77 . 

.20 

78. 

.20 

7.). 

.20 

00. 

.10 

Pd. 

.20 

P2. 

.10 

03. 

.10 


.20 

04. 

.10 


.20 

G5. 

.20 

86. 


87. 

.10 

83. 

.20 

89. 

.20 

90. 

.20 

91. 

.10 



92. 

.20 

93. 

.20 

94. 

.10 


.20 

95. 

.20 

96. 

.20 

97. 

.20 

98. 

.10 

9ir 

.20 



The Spy, by J. F. Cooper, 

East Lynne, by Mrs. Wood. 

A -Strange Story,, by Lytton, 
Adam Bede, by Geo. Eliot, P’t y 

“ “ “ “ •* “ II 

The Golden Shaft, by Gibbon 
Portia; or by Passions Rocked 
Last Daj'S of Pompeii, 

4'he Two Duchesses, - 
Tom Brown at Rugby. 

The Wooing OT, by Mrs. Alex 
ander, Part I, 

Do. Part II, -' 

Tbe Vendetta, by Balzac. 
Hypatia, by Kingsley, Part I, - 
Do. Part II, • 

Selma, by iirs. J, G. Smith. 
Margaret and Her Bridesmaids 
Horse Shoe Robinson, Part I 
Do. Do. Part II 

Gulliver’s Travels, bySwifi; 
Amos Barton, by Geo. Eliot, 
The Berber,by W. S. Mavo. 
Silas Marner, by Geo. Eliot, 
The Queen of the County, 

Life of Cromwell, by Hood, 
Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Bronte, 
Child’s History of England, 
Molly Bawn, by The Duchess, 
Pillone, - . . - 

Phyllis, by The Duchess, 
Romola, by Geo. Lliot, Part T, 
Do. •- Do. Partll, 
Science in Short Chapters. 
Zanoni, by pord Lytton, - 
A'Danghter of lleth, 

The Right and Wrong Uses 'of tbe 
- Bible. Rev. R. HdberNoAvton, 
IHght and Morning, I’art 1. 

Do. Do. Partll, * 

Shandon Bells, b.y Wm. Black, • 
iVIonica, by The Duchess, - 
Heart and Science. 

3'he Golden Calf, 

Dean's Daughter, 

Mrs. Geotrrey, by The Duchess 
Pickwick Papers. Part I, - 
Do. Do. Part II, 

Airy Fairy IJIian, 

MacleocPof Da;e, 
Tempest'Tossed, Part I, > 

Do. “ n. - 

Letters From High Latitudes, 
Gideon Fleyce, by Henry W- 
Liicy, - ‘ - 

India and-Ceylon. by E. Haeckel 
The Gypsy (itueen. 

The Admiral’s Ward, Tiy Airs 
Alexander, 


.• 20 , 

.20 

.20 

.15 

.15 

.20 

.20 

.20 

.20 

. 2 :) 

.1.5 

.15 

.20 

.15 

.15 

.15 

.20 

.15 

.15 

.20 

.10 

.20 

.10 

.20 

.15 

.20 

.20 

.20 

.15 

.20 

.15 

.15 

.20 

.20 

.20 

.20 

.15 

.15 

.20 

.10 

.20 

.20 

.20 

.20 

.20 

.20 

.20 

.20 

.20 

.20 

.20 

.20 

.20 

.20 

.20 


New York: JOHN W. LOVELL CO., 14 & J6 Vesey St. 


■V 


DUNALLAN; 

OR, • 

KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


BY 


GRACE KENNEDY, 

n 

AUTHOR OF “THE DECISION,” “FATHER CLEMENT,” -‘PROFESSION 
IS NOT {PRINCIPLE,” ETC., ETC. 


/ J 


/ 


NEW YORK : 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 

14 AND 16 Vesey Street. 



I 


);<M 


/H 


\A 

V 1 J i - V 1 V 

A 1 

* ^ rrti 




, vr^f 

. V W 


• r 


t • 

* T* 


1 



< 



» 



»► f 


\ 



n 



' I 


r 



I 




\ v •’ 

7/:A'iuC):j :ii :/M{)\ 


. ,T;i .1 « i'cJ YadaV dx e;'/. [ i 




y ■' . 

• ^ 


, t 

-* ( 




• ^ 


Vl 

' . / ■> , 
*. f 


. • A- r 
\ ' ' 


j; i. 

‘ m; (: 


D’UNAL'^L A'N'-; ■' 

' ’. a! i 


OB, . , 

n’- i)!!'/-- t,i 

in .:' ' i , , 


K N 0 W WHAT Y 0 U JUDGE. 


' •; CHAPTER I. ■' •' 

“On, gentle sleep ! thou art, indeed, frighted away,” exclaimed 
Catharine Duhallan, after a night spent in vain efforts to attain 
that repose which had seldom before deserted her, and Vo banish 
from her thoughts the idea of the approaching day. ‘On that 
day' she' was,*' for the first time since her childhood, to see her 
destined husband. He was her relation, though a distant one, 
and heir to her father’s title, which descended only in the male 
line. To ‘preserve this' title, and the estates of both ramilibs 
undivided, had been equally tlie ambition of Catharine’s father^ 
and of the father of her destined husband. 

Lord Dunallan had obtained a promise from his daughter, ■ 
When' very young, to agree to his wishers on this subject. She 
had then loved him with all the ardor of nearly undivided af- 
fection, and would readily have' promised any thing he had 
chosen to ask ; but as her understanding improved, and she 
found that in the society, limited as it' was, in which her father 
permitted her to mix, she liked and disliked with almost equal 
warmth, she became painfully aware of the selfishness and in- 
justice which had induced him thus to sacrifice, perhaps, the 
whole happiness of his only child to his own ambitious views ; 

( 3 ) 


4 


DUNALLAN ; OR, 


and slie looked forward with dread to an event which would 
unite lier for ever to a being she might detest ; yet she loved her 
father so tenderly, that it was painful to her to indulge a thought 
injurious to him. The evil day, too, had always seemed at a 
distance, for the young Dunallan had been long abroad, and 
during wars and revolutions, had found means to travel througli 
countries whera few peaceful travellers had dared to venture. 
His love for this wandering life had seemed to increase ; and 
Catharine who knew that his father had obtained a similar proni- 
i-ie from him, to that which she had given to Lord Dunallan, 
suspected in secret, that repugnance to his unchosen marriage 
was the cause of his banii^hing hlifiself from his country. At 
last, however, his father was taken dangerously ill, Dunallan 
was written for — instantly hurried home, and arrived in time 
to soothe the last hours of his parent. 

Lord Dunallan wrote t adds young relative on the death of 
his father, and soon received an answer to his letter, which con- 
cluded thus : , : . • ,,r ^ ' - I 

■ “ My father’s last moments were disturbed by his anxiety for 
the completion of a scheme formed by your Lordship and him- 
self, to unite the title and fortunes of our families, lie informed 
me that Miss Dunallan had consented to this union of interests. 
Urged by him at such a moment, I could have no choice.- In 
six months, therefore, if I live, I .shall have the honor of wait- 
ing on your Lordship, wherever you choose, to fulfil my part 
of the engagement.” • 

Lord Dunallan was extremely displeased with this letter. 
His pride and affection for his daughter had almost triumphed 
over his love of family — but old ideas soon returned — it was in 
human nature, he wisely recollected, particularly in youth, to 
despise what was easily obtained. He determined to seem less 
anxious about this first wish of his heart, and then Dunallan 
would see its advantages. He did not write to him again for 
some time, then hoped, he said, soon to see his young relation, 
he fiattered himself he might call him his young friend ; but let 
him come as a friend and relation: his daughter ^^as his com- 
j)anion and solace. The thought of .separation was so painful, 
he wished he could forget it forever. 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


5 


To this letter lie received no answer till within a few days of 
the expiration of the six months, when Dunallan announced his in- 
tention of waiting on Lord Dunallan early in the ensuing week ; 
and requested in gentler terms than formerly, though still cold, 
that in a few weeks Miss Dunallan might be permitted to return 
with him to Arnmore ; or that he might be informed of her 
Avislies, Avhicdi he should feel himself bound to acquiesce in if 
possible. “ Business of importance,” added he, “ calls me to 
London, perhaps abroad, and possibly for years. AYherever 
duty may* call me, however, I beg Miss Dunallan may be as- 
sured, that the choice of her own residence shall only require 
the sanction of her father to secure my assent.” It would be 
vain to attempt describing the state of Catharine’s feelings dur- 
ing the few days which intervened between that on which her 
father gave her this letter to read, and the morning of the day 
on which Dunallan was expected. 

“ My dreams of happiness have passed away for ever,” tliought 
she, as she slowly dressed ; then, throwing open the window to 
breathe the freshness of the morning, she, for a time, forgot all 
her griefs, while gazing at the scene before her. The sun had 
just risen. She had seldom seen its first rays before, and the 
Avoods, the distant mountains and still misty lake, appeared more 
than usually beautiful. Almost unconscious of existence, she 
Avatched the brightening scene, till at last recalled to herself by 
some one softly entering her apartment, she turned round. 
“My Elizabeth! how kind! but this is too early. You. cannot 
have recovered from the fatigues of yesterday.” 

Her cousin assured her she aaus perfectly recovered ; and, 
having heard her window opened, she suspected that sleep had 
equally forsaken both. “And you knoAV, dear Catharine,” 
added she, “you promised if I Avould go quietly to bed last 
night, you Avould satisfy my curiosity completely this morning ; 
so now, Ave shall have two hours to converse about every thing 
before a creature is awake.” 

“ O ! Elizabeth, every thing I have to converse about is dis- 
agreeable. I cannot find an idea to rest upon that is not jiain- 
fnl. Even that scene, ([lointing from the window,) even that is 

1 * 


G 


dunallan; or, 


painful, for it reminds me of the cause of my being obliged to 
become for ever the companion of a man who regards our union 
with repugnance ; whose atfections are probably possessed by 
another ; and whose character, even if that is not the case, is 
just what I detest. Oh ! that I could give him those .woods and 
fields without myself. .1 should find nature beautiful anywhere, 
were I only free ; and how many thousand times more valuable 
should I esteem the heart which 1 could win, were I a portion- 
less girl.” 

Elizabeth sighed, but remained silent for a moment. “Tell 
me, dear Catharine,” said she, “ why is Mr. Dunallan’s character 
so disagreeable to you ? and why did you never mention this in 
your late letters to me ? ” 

“Because 1 cannot very well tell why. There is just 

a something in all I hear of him that I dislike. You know, Eliz- 
abeth, of the letters he wrote to my father — so stiff, so formal, 
and cold. I thought them quite insulting.” 

“ It is plain,” replied Elizabeth, “ that he feels himself forced 
to marry, and lhat he spurns this force ujx)!! his inclinations, 
but, dear Catharine, I do not feel very anxious about this. 
When he sees and knows you, he will love his father’s memory 
for the very thing he now most revolts at.” 

“Dear Elizabeth, has my father been tutoring you? You 
use his very words ; and Avhen you use them, I will say they are 
very foolish. Can you think that a man who has been travel- 
ling all over Europe — in France, Italy, Poland, in short, 
wherever agreeable women are to be met with — will find a 
simple country girl, who has scarcely ever associated with any 
but neighbors as simple as herself, so irresistibly charming ? 
Particularly, too, when that girl is so prejudiced against him, 
that any agreeable qualities she -may have will be invisible; for, 
you know, my face betrays all my feelings ? ” 

“ I know, my dear Catharine, that this very expressiveness 
of countenance, which makes you unable to conceal any thing, 
is the very charm which I think irresistible.” 

“ Particularly when my face will say, Mr. Dunallan, you are 
hateful to me, and have been so for years.” 


KNOW WIIAT YOU JUDGE. 


1 

“ r>ut tell me why he is so hateful to you ? and why have you 
been so secret with me on this subject ? ” 

“ Well, I will ; but I have so much to tell you I do not know 
where to begin. I am sure, however, you will feel as I- do 
when you know all. You remember when I was a child, and 
he a boy about fourteen, that he then disliked me, ilnd we quar- 
relled continually.” 

“ But, Catharine, you surely cannot allow yourself to be pre- 
judiced by what passed then : you, a spoiled, self-willed, domi- 
neering little girl ; and he a thoughtless, rambling boy.” 

“ Never thoughtless, Elizabeth ; always solemn and consider- 
ate, even then. I do not, however, form my opinion of him- on 
such trifling grounds. I only remind you of this, to show you 
that naturally we do not suit each other ; for even children dis- 
cover what is agreeable to them in other children. Think what 
you choose about that, however, I have enough besides to tell 
you. I ouglit to begin, I believe, by informing you that he pro- 
fesses being extremely religious, much more so than other peo- 
ple, and is very gloomy and strict. lie is called the ‘ Saint of 
Arnmorc,’ by the gentlemen of liis own county. You shall 
judge wliether liis actions are quite consistent with these preten- 
sions. You know, I believe, how uncommonly tender ids 
father’s aflection was for him ; yet nothing Avould prevail on 
Dunallan to remain at home. I myself heard the old gentleman 
say, that he had entreated him only to name his wishes, and 
that he would consent to them. He offered him his largest 
estate, or both estates, while lie himself should only retain a 
moderate annuity ; but not all this eagerness for his society, in 
his only surviving parent, could induce this cold and self-willed 
being to remain, even for a few months in the year, at home ; 
and yet he made a disgusting parade of visiting prisons, relieving 
distress, and representing to the different authorities, wherever 
lie went, tlie defects and abuses which he detected ; while his 
father, in bad health and retirement, was left to the care of mer- 
cenaries.” 

“ Shameful hypocrisy ! ” exclaimed Elizabeth. “ I have 
heard of his benevolence and cfiarities ; and his kindness to 


8 


DUNALLAN ; OR, 


myself when a child, and ill treated by our governess ; had 
rather imi^ressed me in his favor, but this trait in his character 
is indeed very bad.” 

“ I have more to tell you, my dear Elizabeth. After his 
father’s death, Dunallan dismissed every servant in the house, 
some of who’in had lived with old Mr. Dunallan for more than 
twenty years, and did not give the smallest present or reward 
to any of them excepting to a very young and pretty girl, wlio 
had only been a few weeks in the house, to whom he gave 
money, and with it, hypocritical being, ii Bible ! ” 

“ Shocking! but how do you know all this ? ” 

“From the young girl herself. She came all the way from 
her father’s cottage at Arnmore, to ask me to take her into my 
service ; and very wisely thought that these proofs of Dunal- 
lan’s partiality would recommend her to me, as, she said, she 
knew my ‘ Ladyship ’ was going to be married to Mr. Dunallan.” 

“ And what is become of her ? ” 

“ I immediately sent her back to her father. I dreaded ex- 
tremely that Dunallan should suppose I was making any inqui- 
ries respecting him ; for though I must feel interested in all I 
hear of him, I have never sought for any information. All I 
have heard has been by accident, except his opinion of myself, 
which, I believe, was j)urposely left for me to read, by our 
acquaintance, Mrs. Lennox.” 

“ Mrs. Lennox ! you surely know how to appreciate any 
thing she says.” 

“ Oil, certainly I do ; but this letter was addressed to her son, 
and was from Dunallan himself.” 

“ But Mrs. Lennox would do any thing, my dear Catharine, 
to break olf your marriage, in the hope that you might be won 
by the charms of her stupid George.” 

“ Yes ; but George is very different from his mother, and has 
no preference for me. I know he is engaged to another, and 
this letter was the means of putting me in possession of his 
secret. About two years since, when I was on .a visit at Mrs. 
Lennox’s, she gave me a book which I had wished to read. In 
this book I found folded, and laid in, as if for a mark, a sheet 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


9 


of written paper. I had seen the book lying in the breakfist 
parlor, and it never occurred to me that it could be any thing 
but a quotation from it, and as I read, I supposed it a character 
depicted for the use, or rather warning of young ladies, to whom 
the book was addressed. I almost remember the words, I have 
thought so often of them since. It began thus, — ‘She was, 
when a child, violent and self-willed ; careless 'of all around 
her if she attained her own object. Unchecked by any one, 
her faults, from all I hear, are strengthened with her years : 
and now she is the opposite of what, in my eyes, is lovely, or 
lovable in woman. I allow, my friend, that when joined to 
feminine softness, talents in woman are very desirable, and 
greatly increase their power of charming ; but without that soft- 
ness, they are very disagreeable to me : in short, I see, and 
thank you for the kindness of your intentions, but I cannot feel 
reconciled to my proposed union wdth Miss Dimallan.’ Here, 
my dear Elizabeth, I stopped, as I perceived I had by mistake 

been reading a letter from it was easy to guess whom. I 

immediately went in search of Mrs. Lennox, and said I had 
inadvertently read a letter addressed to her son. Before she 
could possibly have seen what I held in my hand, she exclaimed, 
‘Oh! what have I done I You have found Mr. Dunallan’s let- 
ter to George. What shall I do I George will never forgive 
me.’ George fortunately entered the room, at that moment, and 
as I saw Mrs. Lennox was merely affecting to dread her son’s 
displeasure, I told him of my mistake, showed him what I had 
read, and assured him, as he really appeared distressed at my 
having seen this character of myself, that I thought it fortunate 
I had, {^3 I might correct the faults imputed to me. George 
took an early opportunity of imparting to me his own views and 
wishes. lie saw his mother’s plans for him, and dreaded that I 
might suspect he had entered into them. I have felt as a sister 
for George ever since that day ; but I must not now spend time 
in talking of him. Tell me, Elizabeth, do you think it possible 
for me to look forward to a connection for life with this man 
without dread ? ” 

Elizabeth .shook her head but remained silent. 


10 


DUNALLAN ; OR, 


“I believe,” continued Catharine, ‘‘you agree with me in 
thinking what I have already told you, sufficient to take away 
all hopes of happiness from such an union : yet this is not all. 
I have described him as a son, and as a master ; I have still to 
make you acquainted with him as a friend and a brother. You 
have met with Mr. Clanmar. You know that he and Dunallan 
were educated^ together when boys. They afterwards travelled 
together in Holland, Germany, and other countries. You have 
heard that Mr. Clanmar, to the inexpressible grief of his friends, 
brought home a young German lady as his wife, whose char- 
acter suffered extremely from the suspicious circumstances 
attending her marriage : in short, had her first child lived, his 
legitimacy might have- been disputed: and this marriage was 
brought about, the Clanmars say, by Dunallan, whose influence 
over young Clanmar was then unbounded. The young lady is 
singularly interesting, and was a mere child at the time of her 
marriage ; so the poor Clanmars are now, in some degree, 
reconciled to it : but they openly declare they can never regard 
Mr. Dunallan but as the most detestable of hypocrites ; in short? 
there is something worse than I know in this story, at least 
there are dreadful suspicions. Young Clanmar, who is univer- 
sally esteemed as one of the most amiable tempered men in the 
world, and indeed as very perfect in every wa}^, never mentions 
Dimallan’s name ; and though formerly so devotedly attached 
to him, they now have no intercourse whatever.” 

“ Dear Catharine ! ” exclaimed Elizabeth, “ is it possible 
Lord Dunallan knows all this, and yet can suffer you to be 
united to this man ! ” 

“ Yes, my own Elizabeth, my father knows it all, but he hates 
the Clanmars, who have always opposed him in the county, and 
supposes they have exaggerated these stories. I fear, however, 
they are too true ; for I can see no reason for people, so remark- 
able for pride of birth as they are, choosing to exaggerate 
stories which are disgraceful to the wife of him, who will soon 
be the ^representative of their boasted family. But now, my 
Elizabeth, I shall tell you the history of his only sister, as we 
may be interrupted. She has been dead, you know, about two 


KNOW iWHAT YOU JUDGE. 


11 


years, and left two children. .She was older than Diinallan; 
and before he left Oxford, had, with her father’s consent, married 
a young Englishman of family and fortune. It was on Dun- 
allan’s quitting Oxford, that he first showed his dislike to living 
at home; and he spent much of his time in England at the 
house of his brother-in-law, Mr. Harcourt. For some time, 
Mr. Harcourt continued -one of the gayest and most fashionable 
men about London, but he gamed so deeply, that he very soon 
ruined his fortune. Dunallan went abroad dn less than two 
years after ' leaving Oxford, and remained absent until called to 
ICngland by Harcourt’s entreaties, whose creditors had become 
very troublesome. He so arranged matters, that Harcourt was 
permitted to accept of an appointment in India ; but ever cold 
and unfeeling, he compelled his unfortunate sister to remain in 
this country, though separation from her now unfortunate but 
still beloved Harcourt, almost deprived her of existence. Dun^ 
allan’s command of fortune, however, made him all powerful. 
Harcourt himself entreated his wife to remain. She died two 
years afterwards of a broken heart. Her children are with 
Dunallan, or rather with an aunt of his, whom he has got to 
superintend his domestic concerns, including me, I suppose. 
And now, Elizabeth, you know his character, tell me, my real 
friend, what do you think I ought to do? I have given my 
promise to my father ; I cannot retract it ; but if I could delay, 
if I could induce Mr. Dunallan to give up his pursuit. He has 
the worst opinion of me. What can I do ? ” • ' 

Elizabeth continued silent a few moments, then asked hei' 
friend whether she thought it quite impossible to change her 
father’s wishes. 

“Quite so, my Elizabeth. All, if you knew the variou 
means I have tried in vain. I ought not to Avish it,” added she. 
rising, and bursting into tears ; “ I have had many happy years 
from his kindness ; I ought not to repine at sacrificing the rest 
of my life to him.” 

“AlloAvme to speak on. the subject to Mr. Dunallan when 
he arrives,” said Elizabeth. 

“ But Avoiild that be fulfilling my promise to my father ? No, 


12 


DUNALLAN; OK, 


no ; I must go on. Come here, my h^lizabeth : look at those 
woods, those distant mountains, and those soft hills still nearer. 
Look at that smooth lake as it reflects its surrounding scenery, 
and tell. me what you feel.” 

Elizabeth gazed with admiration at the glorious scene before 
her, and then replied, “ I feel, Catharine, that 1 could never be 
very unhappy with nature around me so sweet, so sublimely 
beautiful and soothing; unless I had lost for ever some beloved 
object, with whom I had enjoyed its charms ; or was, by some 
insurmountable obstacle, separated from such a friend. I have 
feared to ask the question, Catharine; but there is no separa- 
tion in your case, I fervently pray, \<diicli makes an union with 
Dunallan so dreadful to you.” 

‘‘ No, my dear Elizabeth ; you yourself are the dearest 
friend, I have in the world ; and you, I hope, will be more with 
me than you have of late ’been. My father has watched over 
my happiness in this respect. In the limited circle in which he 
has allowed me to mix, there is no one for M'hom I feel a pref- 
erence : and I agree with you in thinking, that while I have a 
heart to feel, and while nature and my friend are left to me, I 
cannot be quite unhappy. Whatever happens, however, life is 
not a long affair with any of us ; particularly the miserable,” 
added she, her eyes again filling with tears. 

Elizabeth threw her arms around her friend, and wept Muth 
her, but could find no subject of consolation. 

“ Who is this aunt of Dunallan’s ? ” asked she at length. 

“ She is the most unfortunate human creature I ever heard 
of,” replied Catharine, ‘‘ she has lost her husband, and her whole 
family of six children. She is talked of as a good sort of 
woman, but a religious enthusiast. I suppose, poor soul, her 
misfortunes have affected her understanding, and I feel that I 
ought to pity her ; — yet what a companion I Dunallan is equally 
gloomy and enthusiastic. Oh ! my father, what a cruel choice ! 
As he says of me, he is the complete opposite of what I could 
ever find it possible to love. But here comes Martin,* and I must 
bid adieu to this subject. My heart feels relieved by con- 
versing with you, my own Elizabeth ; but perhaps if I am not 


KNOAV'; WHAT YOU JUDO II. 


13 


to appear very unhappy to niy father, it will be necessary to 
avoid in future such softening intercourse.” 

Elizabeth agreed ; and embraciug each other, as if in giv- 
ing up this soothing confidence, they had given up iheir last 
consolation, Elizabeth left her young friend with the wonderin'’- 
Martin, who liad come earlier than usual to cull her lady on 
this eventful day. 

Martin had suspected, however, tliat Mr. Dunallan’s arrival 
was no cause of joy to her young mistress. Catharine’s early 
rising, and the tears^in her eyes, confirmed her suspicions, and 
made her less unwilling to agree to her lady’s determination to 
wear a very plain morning dress. 

Catharine had no desire to please, IMr. Dunallan. If she 
could have concealed her face, or deprived it of the power of 
expression, she would have been more satisfied. She had an 
additional cause of uneasiness in the numerous spectators who 
must witness her feelings. Lord Dunallan, from- a dread of his 
daughter’s gentle submissive looks, and melancholy sweetness 
of manners, which were now the only means she used to 
induce him to pity her ; and perhaps from a dread of his own 
feelings, when about to part from a child he loved next to Ids 
fiimily and name, had invited tlie neighboring families in 
succession for several weeks. To none of them Jiad Catharine 
imparted her dislike to her approaching marriage ; and though 
the younger part wondered at their beautiful companion thus 
agreeing, like one of the royal family, to be united to a person 
she had scarcely ever seen ; and the elder envied the fatlier 
who had so submissive a child : yet both ascribed this sub- 
mission to pride, and the same love of family so remarkable in 
Lord Dunallan. Catharine had perceived this, and the idea 
of tlieir observing all her actions thus prejudiced, chilled and 
discouraged her : yet she resoh^ed not to transfer their dis- 
approbation from herself to her father by the slightest hint of 
the truth. 


2 


14 


i>unallan; ok, 


CHAPTER ir. 

Lord Dunallan was alone in the breakfast room when Cath- 
arine entered! He received her with ^tenderness ; kissed her 
forehead ; and pressed her hurriedly to his bosom ; glanced at 
her pale countenance ; then saying he had forgot something 
(she did not hear what), he left her: but she heard him sigh 
deeply, which brought tears into her eye^, ^and confirmed her 
determination to cpnceal from him and every one else the de- 
jection she felt. ‘ ■' 

Elizabeth soon joined her, and then Mrs. Lennox, her son 
George, and Rose his sister the St. Clairs of the Isle,* Sir Ar- 
chibald and Lady Cameron of Glenmore, their son, and two 
daughters. 

Every eye during breakfast was turned towards Catharine. 
Elizabeth endeavored to divert the attention of the party by 
proposing plans of amusement for the day, and this in some 
degree succeeded. • 

“ Miss Dunallan has expressed no preference,” said young 
St. Clair at last. “ Miss Dunallan, I know you are fond of 
riding. Shalkwe ride ? ” " 

“ Oh no ! dear Miss Dunallan,” exclaimed Rose Lennox, “ do 
consent to the sailing party.” 

‘‘ But if Catharine prefers riding,” said Miss Cameron, “ we 
can ride first,” replied Catharine, “ and then* sail. The day is 
charming ; we shall have time for both, if we order the horses 
immediately.” 

Lhe horses were soon got ready ; and the younger visitors of 
the party set off, all gay, and in expectation of enjoyment. She 
only was sad, whom each thought had most the power of being 
happy. d ' ‘v = i 

Loung St. Clair as.sisted Catharine to mount her horse. He 
had observed the dejection which she in vain attempted to 
conceal, and his manner showed her that he had. He put the 
reins into her hand, but laid hi.*, arm on the neck of the horse. 
“ He is very gentle,” said he, stroking him. 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


15 


“ Ye^!,” replied Catharine, “ he obeys the slightest touch of 
the reins.” 

St. Clair looked earnestly but tenderly at Catharine, and said, 
in a low voice, “you, Miss Dunallan, will always find it so 
Avith all whom you condescend to guide, or lead, — or love,” 
added he, in a still lower voice. 

Catharine looked languidly away, bowed coldly, and rode on. 

Catharine had willingly agreed to the wishes of her young 
friends, because she hoped she. would, while i-iding or sailing, 
forget herself and her griefs ; but though the day was charm- 
ing, and her companions increased in gaiety, she could' not 
banish thought, and became every moment more sad. 

The lake was smooth, and the air soft and balmy ; the sur- 
rounding scenery even more than usually beautiful ; yet Cath- 
arine thought only of her approaching meeting with her hated 
cousin ; and the time they continued to sail seemed tedious, 
though she dreaded its termination. At last they landed at a 
short distance from the castle. St. Clair offered his arm to 
Catharine, Elizabeth walked on her other side, and on turning 
round a part of the wood, they came in sight of the house, at 
the entrance to which a travelling carriage had just stopped. 
Catharine looked eagerly towards it, until she saw a gentle- 
man, of a tall and graceful figure, alight rather slowly from it, 
and her father advance to meet him. She supposed it was 
Dunallan, and, becoming as pale as death, she involuntarily 
shrunk back. St. Clair, who felt her trembling violently, 
entreated her to sit down on a garden seat near where they 
stood. “ We have had such a fatiguing day,” said he, “ I am 
surprised at any lady having strength for such exertions.” 
Catharine trembled so excessively, that she was obliged, for a 
few moments, to comply with his request. Annoyed, however, 
by the looks and attentions of St. Clair, and by the inquiries 
of the rest of the party who soon joined them, she struggled 
to regain composure, and leaning on Elizabeth’s arm, again 
l)roceeded towards the house. St. Clair entreated her to lean 
on him, but she coldly declined his offer, and looking back for 
Rose Lennox, who instantly came to her, put her arm within 
hers, and in a whisper begged her to remain near her. 


16 


uunallan; oRj 


Lord Dunallan and the stranger now approached. Cath- 
arine dared not raise her eyes, but became very pale, and 
trembled violently. ^ 

“ It is Mr. Dunallan,”' whispered Elizabeth, “ I recollect him 
perfectly. He looks very mild.” Catharine remained silent. 
The rest of the party were walking before, and Lord Dunallan 
first introduced Dunallan to them, then approaching Catharine, 
“ My love, your cousin. Elizabeth, you remember Mr. Dunal- 
lan.” Catharine looked up for a moment; Dunallan’s eyes 
were mildly fixed upon her ; hers fell under his, and she blush- 
ed deeply. She felt ashamed of the appearance of bashful 
timidity which she was conscious must be the impression her 
silence and blushes would convey to Dunallan ; yet she could 
not speak ; but recollecting all she had heard of him, and her 
own situation, contempt, pride, and dislike of his character 
regained their influence ; and, though silent, she walked on 
with her head raised, and her eyes looking down with an expres- 
sion of great haughtiness. Dunallan entered into conversation 
with Elizabeth. The very tone of his voice was disagreeable 
to Catharine ; because so different from what she expected it to 
be from the person she had so long pictured in her imagination. 
It was singularly mild and low. 

“ I have travelled in so many climates, and been exposed to 
such scorching suns, that I am surprised and flattered at your 
recollecting me, Miss Murray ; yet I believe it is the expression 
of a friend’s countenance we remember. I should have known 
you, also, had I seen you smile.” 

“ And Miss Dunallan, should you have Jcnown her ? ” asked 
Elizabeth. 

“ I believe not : ” then looking past Elizabeth for a moment, 
“Les, Miss Dunallan is less changed than I thought, the first 
moment I had the pleasure of seeing her.” 

Catharine pressed Elizabeth’s arm ; for Dunallan breathed a 
short sigh after saying this. 

Elizabeth was not surprised at his sigh, when she looked at 
Catharine ; for she had no idea her friend could look so little 
agreeable. 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


17 


I 

. ; They walked on for a short way in silence. Dunallan then 
f remarked the improvements which had taken place around Dun- 
1 'allan Castle during his absence. 

- . “ Can you admire our poor Scotland, after having visited 
r Italy and Switzerland?” asked Elizabeth. 

“ I have seen no scenery to me more beautiful than Avhat now 
^ surrounds me since I 'left Scotland,” replied Dunallan ; “ that 
at Arnmore only surpasses it,” added he, smiling. 

1 “ Yours is a very happy taste, Mr. Dunallan,” said Catha- 
rine, in a rather ironical tone of voice. 

“ Is it so unfortunate as to differ from yours. Miss Dun- 
allan?” 

“ I certainly have never seen any place I preferred to Dun- 
allan Castle,” replied Catharine, “but I have never been out 
T of Scotland, and imagine I should admire the scenery of some 
1 other countries still more, unless their describers greatly ilatter 
[f them.” 

“ I believe,” answered Dunallan, “ that even after you have 
seen those countries, you will not condemn my taste.” 

Catharine made no reply. 

The party soon reached the house, and as it was late, sepa- 
rated to dress for dinner. Catharine followed Elizabeth to her 

( 

room. 

“ Well, my dear Elizabeth, you see we have differed in opin- 
ion already.” 

“ Yes, dear Catharine ; but I must have you to lay aside that 
expression of haughtiness ; and that contemptuous tone of voice. 
You provoke hostility.” 

“ But I cannot help it, Elizabeth, and I confess you surprised 
- me by entering so cordially into conversation with a pei-son who 
you know Ikis so ma>>y faults, and of whom you yourself ex- 
j)ressed so bad an opinion before you met.” 

“ I really had forgot for a time, what you told me, dear Cath- 
arine, there is something so singularly sincere and pleasing in 
Ills looks and manner.” 

“ I have not looked at him yet,” replied Catharine, “ and 
cannot so soon forget his father or his sister or his friend ; but 

2 * 


18 


DUXALLAN ; OR, 


good bye, Elizabeth, I wish I conld forget, and feel some of the 
complacency for him which you do.” 

When Catharine entered the drawing-room, before dinner, 
she found most of the party assembled. A glance around the 
room, however, told her that Dunallan was not there. She felt 
relieved, and joined Mrs. Lennox and others, who were examin- 
ing some prints Mdiich Lord Dunallan had just received from 
London. Catharine accepted of a seat placed for her by St. Clair, 
Mdio protested against her standing after having suffered so much 
from fatigue. As the prints were in a large volume, it was im- 
possible to see them when sitting. St.. Clair and young Cameron 
therefore supported the book, so as to place the prints in an ad- 
vantageous situation. Lady Cameron and Mrs. St. Clair chose 
to stand behind Catharine. Elizabeth, Rose, and the others, 
idso stood near her, while she, thrown back in her chair, scarcely 
conscious of what passed, languidly expressed her opinion, 
which Avas constantly appealed to by all the party. Dunallan 
entered during this scene. Catharine did not immediately 
change her attitude, but turned her eyes towards the door. Dun- 
allan stood for a moment near the party, then, with a look of 
displeasure, turned aAvay, and joined Lord Dunallan, who was 
standing in a window, absorbed in his own thoughts. Catharine 
felt her face glow, and leant forward to conceal it. Dunallan’s 
Avas the same indignant glance which she used to dread Avhen a 
child, because she alAAmys knew she deserved it. Noav she Avas 
unconscious of its cause. She soon, hoAvever, recollected his 
opinion of her ; proud, selfish, spoiled by prosperity ; and she 
supposed her looks conveyed to him these impressions, sur- 
rounded by adulation as she was at that moment. “But Avhat 
right has he,” thought she, “to restrain .or to dictate tome?” 
She raised her head, and again leaning l>fick in her chair, began 
to talk to St. Clair, Avho, all animation and attention, \Amtched 
and read her expressive countenance. 

“ Have you seen those prints, Mr. Dunallan ? ” asked his 
Lordship, approaching the table. 

Dunallan, folloAved sloAvly, and stood behind Rose. 

“ Beautiful ! ” exclaimed Catharine, Avhen the next print Avas 
shown. “ Beautiful ! ” exclaimed every one except Dunallan. 


KNOWr AVIIAT YOU JUDGE. 


19 


'‘^ Mr. Dunallan, do you not think it.beautiful?” asked Rose, 

^ “ I have seen the original painting,” replied Dunallan, “ and 

I think the print might have been much better.” 

“ I too have seen the original painting,” said St. Clair, “ but 
must still agree with Miss Dunallan in thinking the print ex- 
quisitely fine.” < ' . 

Dunallan was silent. 

Another print was shown.) . 

“ That is surely very fine,” said Rose. “ To me it appears 
beautiful.” 

“ It is so,” said Dunallan, “ and does justice to the painting, 
from which it has been taken.” 

“ Particularly that part;” remarked Catharine, pointing to the 
foreground, which was very unmeaning. 

“ No,” replied Dunallan in a calm voice, “ but the painter of 
- that piece is famous for his distances, while his foregrounds are 
always defective. Miss Lennox’s taste is perfectly correct in 
admiring that part of the print to which she pointed.” 

‘‘ Oh,” said Rose, “ Catharine and I are both right ! ” 

Many more prints were turned over, but Catharine gave no 
opinion ; and St. Clair seemed so much inclined to dispute what- 
^ ever Dunallan said, that she felt quite relieved when dinner was 
announced. 

The day passed on. Catharine felt constrained by being 
conscious that she was observed by every one. She dreaded 
that her looks should betray her feelings. She wished to ap- 
pear not unhappy to her father ; yet, in making this attempt 
she feared that the calm, and as she thought, very proud-look- 
ing Dunallan, might suppose she was pleased with her future 
prospects, which she felt became more alarming to her every 
time she ventured to think. These contending feelings gave 
to her countenance an expression of abstraction and uneasi- 
ness ; while her indifference, and careless answers to those 
around her, by whom she was accustomed to be treated with a 
deference and attention which had unconsciously led her to dis- 
regard all they said, gave her the appearance of a dissatisfied, 
spoiled child. Her eyes often met Dunallan’s, and each time 


20 


dunallan; or, 


the expression of his seemed to increase in disapprobation, and 
she thought even in contempt. Catharine felt this extremely. 
Adulation, endeavors to soothe, if she was out of temper i 
and solicitude to discover her wishes, she was always accus- 
tomed to, and scarcely perceived; but, excepting from Elizabeth, 
or her own heart, she seldom saw a look, or heard a word of 
re[)roof. Every family in the neighborhood had wished, in some 
way to connect her with them. Of high birth, and immense 
fortune, very beautiful, and, in general, amiable in temper, she 
was indisputably the most charming and most admired young 
lady in that part of the country. Her father’s intention of 
uniting her to her cousin was well known ; but, at the same 
time, all who were acquainted with her character supposed, thtit, 
though disengaged affections, and pride of family, might lead 
her to agree to her father’s wishes before she saw the person 
proposed, that if she disliked him, nothing would induce her to 
proceed. Dunallan’s long absence, and Lord Dunallaii’s ill- 
concealed displeasure, had increased their hopes. Mrs. Lennox 
felt certain that George, from the affectionate manner in which 
Catharine treated him, was not indifferent to her. The St. 
Ckiirs thought their Arthur irresistible, where there was no 
other engagement ; and so did St. Clair, who was extremely 
liandsome, and almost as much admired bj^ the ladies as Catha- 
rine was by the other sex. Poor young Cameron, who was too 
modest to think himself Mmrthy of such an angel ; yet eveiy 
gentle look she bestowed on him was the foundation of a day 
dream, — so delightful, that its demolition by her next look of 
total indifference equalled it in wretchedness. He lingered still 
near her, though he a thousand times determined to separate 
himself as far as the antipodes from her bewitching smiles, and 
killing indifference. His mother knew of his passion, and 
endeavored to gain Catharine’s confidence by every gentle 
and winning method, and to recommend her son, by her con- 
stant praises of his excellence as a son and a brother. The 
IMiss Camerons looked up to Catharine as the moilel of all per- 
fection, and paid her the deference of the heart. Mrs. Lennox 
flattered her. Rose really loved, and was really loved by her. 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


21 


Lord Dunallan was quite satisfied, howcA’er, that none of these 
young men, nor their friends, had made any impression on 
I Catharine’s heart : and felt rather gratified, that Dunallan should 
f see the devotion of these families, the heirs of whom each pos- 
sessed fortunes twice as large as his. Lord Dunallan watched 
Catharine’s looks on this day. She saw that he did; and- also 
that he was anxious to make all go on smoothly. But it would 
not do. St. Clair seemed to watch every opportunity of dis- 
puting with Dunallan, or of making him appear ridiculouSj 
j which,£'om his natural quickness, and very frequently exercised 
talent for satire, he generally found hiinself able to do when- 
ever he attempted it with others. Dunallan’s calmness, his 
temperate replies, and his unmoved politeness, were however 
! too much for St. Clair, and he evidently lost his temper.. 

“ Let us have some music, my love,” said Lord Dun- 
i allan to his daughter. “ Mr. Dunallan, I suppose, ])refers 
Italian to any other.” “ No, my Lord, I prefer Scotch,” said 
Dunallan. “ Indeed i Is it possible for one who has travelled 
to preserve a taste so simple ? ” 

“ My taste is very simple, my Lord. In music I prefer that 
with which I can associate some pleasing idea.” 

“ And is Scotland so happy as to have inspired your most 
pleasing ideas, Mr. Dunallan ? ” asked St. Clair, with affected 
simplicity. 

“More so than Italy, at least,” replied Dunallan. . ‘ 

“ There is a charm, to be sure, in the idea of home to every 
one,” said St. Clair. 

Dunallan for the first time seemed moved. “ I did not sny 
//ome,” replied he. “You, Mr. St. Clair, know I could not 
mean it.” 

There was an expression of so much pain, as well as dis- 
pleasure in Dunallan’s countenance when he said this, that 
Catharine felt touched. She addressed him in a gentle tone of 
voice, and, though he did not instantly regain his composure, 
they soon entered into conversation. 1 hey talked first about 
music, and Catharine played and sung whatever he wished. 
He continued near her. during the res^ of the e'^ening. and 


22 


DUN ALL AN OR, 


thougli in conversation he’ often difFe red, from her in opinion; 
and his looks expressed less of 'that pleasure and admiratioii 
with which she was generally; listened to, than curiosity,' and a 
wish to read her mind' in her countenance, yet she felt when 
they parted^ for the night, -that his look -was 'not one of disapn 
probation. > *' - ' ' • J 

“ I will not stay a moment with you, dear Catharine,” said 
Elizabeth, following her into her apartment, “ for you are quite! 
worn out ; only tell me in one word,' sire you not more pleased; 
than you expected ? ” , ^ I 

“ You need' not be so careful of me, dear Elizabeth, I shall 
not soon sleep.” ^ . . ' ■ 

Well ; but answer me.” ‘ * 

“ I cannot answer you, Elizabeth. He is quite different from 
what I expected.” • i 

“ Do not you find him very agreeable in manner ? ” ’ I 

“ Oh ! agreeable and polished enough to -make me certain he 
will despise my defects.” • 

“ Ridiculous ! Your defects, Catharine. But good night. I i 
see you think as I do.” . ■ 1 

Catharine again declared she could not sleep. But Eliza- i 
beth insisted on leaving her ; and though at first a thousand 
confused and interesting thoughts kept her awake, they soon 
assumed the forms of dreams, and these were lost in more pro- 
found sleep. 


CHAPTER HI. 

Next morning at breakfast. Lord Dunallan said, that, if his 
friends would excuse him', he wished to pay a visit in the 
neighborhood, which would detain him all the forenoon, and 
he was anxious, before his departure, to discover whether there 
was any plan of amusement arranged for the day. Every one 
declared they would find amusement for themselves, and begged 
his Lordship to take no charge of them. 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


23 


“Catharine, my love,” said Lord Dunallan, “you will show 
'“•ryour cousin the additions I have made to the library.” This 
* j ])articular charge of her cousin, committed to Catharine, brouMit 
I a blush over her countenance, and an expression of displeasure. 
^ Dunallan 'looked for her answer. She only bowed her assent 
very coldly. 

“I believe, my Lord, I ought to relieve Miss Dunallan from 
this task, and accompany your Lordship part of the way. I 
^ wish to call on my friend young Clanmar.” 

“ Clanmar ? ” exclaimed Catharine, quite thrown off her 
guard by surprise. 

Dunallan looked for an explanation. Catharine blushed 
deeply. “ I thought — I supposed — I did not know — I had, 
been led to believe ” — and she stopt. 

I “ I believe 1 understand you. Miss Dunallafl. You had been- 
led to believe that Mr. Clanmar had reason to think himself in- 
jured by me, under the mask of friendship.” 

Catharine blushed again still more deeply ; but w'as silent. 
There was something about Dunallan that quite deprived her of 
all presence of mind. 'Every look, every word he uttered, every 
expression of his open and animated countenance, was in direct 
contradiction to the character she had formed of him in idea ; 
and his plain avowal of the truth on this occasion left her unable 
to say a word. She was relieved by Mrs. Lennox, who said, 
“ One hears such stories of all one’s friends, that it is necessary 
to believe absolutely nothing.” > 

“Would it not be better, Mrs. Lennox,” asked Dunallan, “to 
discover from our friends themselves whether there is any truth 
in such stories? if there is, our advice may be of use; if not,i 
Ave may put our friend on his guard, or assist him in disproving 
them.” 

“ Your theory is beautiful, Mr. Dunallan,” said Mrs. Lennox, 
“ but I fear impracticable ; for the first consequence of telling a 
friend that such a one said so and so oT him would be a chal- 
lenge ; and I believe Mr. Dunallan is an enemy to duelling.” 

“Certainly,” replied Dunallan, “but it is not necessary to 
mention names on such an occasion.” i 


24 


dunallan; or, 


“ But,” said Mrs. Lennox, “ I should doubt the truth of what 
was told me ; particularly,” added she laughing, ‘‘ if it detracted 
from my own merits, unless I was informed who said it, and all 
about it, every way.” 

“ I did not advert to being disbelieved, I confess,” replied 
Dunallan smiling. “ I have yet to learn how to act upon such 
an occasion.” 

‘‘ But the situation of gentlemen and ladies is entirely dif- 
ferent,” rejoined Mrs. Lennox, “ we stand in no awe of duels ; 
so we can politely insinuate, that we suspect there has been 
some misstatement, some mistake of names or persons. Oh, a 
hundred ways, which by degrees brings us to the bottom of 
every thing. I am pretty certain I could discover even Mr. 
Dunallan’s authorities, if he told me some evil story he had 
heard of me.” * 

■ Dunallan declined entering the lists with so dangerous a per- 
son, and retired \\dth Lord Dunallan, who seemed rather anxious , 
to depart. Catharine felt relieved by his absence ; and after she 
had engaged the rest of the party in such amusements as suited 
their different tastes, she retired with Elizabeth to converse with 
her about Dunallan, and her own hopes and fears respecting the 
future. 

This and several other days passed Avithout apparently pro- 
ducing much difference in the feelings of any of the party. 
Lord Dunallan continued to press his visitors to prolong their 
stay, and Catharine joined her entreaties from a dread of the 
party becoming so small as to force a more intimate intercourse 
with Dunallan, whom she found every hour more difficult to 
understand, and wdiose presence Avas a continual restraint to 
her, because, though she hardly avoAved it to herself, she dread- 
ed his opinion, and Avas conscious that, of her, it very often 
Avas unfavorable: but though he so frequently differed from 
her, and even in what she esteemed trifles, shOAved that differ- 
ence of opinion ; yet lie was uniformly so gentle and polite 
in his manner, that she could not make herself believe he Avished 
to offend. A thousand times in the day she Avould say to her- 
self, “ Why do I dread his disapprobation ? Let him disapprove,^. 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


25 


let him abandon this heartless, interested engagement ; let him 
despise me, and leave me in peace.” Yet the next time she 
joined in conversation, or gave her opinion, her eye involuntarily- 
glanced towards Dunallan, and if he was of the same opinion, 
or seemed pleased with what she had said, she felt a lightness 
of heart which led her on to speak until she had said some- 
thing, or laughed at, or joined in ridiculing some opinion 
or person undeserving of such treatment ; and then Dunallan’s 
grave expression, when every one else laughed, made her un- 
easy, and unable to enjoy any thing that passed. 

“ That stern cast-down of his eyes — that fixedly grave look, 
when we are only amusing ourselves,” said she to Elizabeth, 
“ is such a reflection upon us all, even upon my father, it is 
quite intolerable.” 

“ Mr. St. Clair is to blame, however,” replied Elizabeth, “ for 
those provoking looks. He knows Mr. Dunallan’s strict way 
of thinking about ridicule, and religion, and some other things ; 
yet he always contrives to introduce these subjects into conver- 
sation in the very way to provoke Mr. Dunallan’s grave looks : 
and I think you must allow, Catharine, that Mr. Dunallan has 
always the just side in an argument, and leaves Mr. St. Clair 
without a word to advance, but some silly piece of sophistry, or 
foolish jest, which only discovers the weakness of the side he 
has taken.” 

“ But St. Clair is never serious,” replied Catharine, “ he only 
wishes to amuse us, while Mr. Dunallan is always so grave and 
so full of wisdom, and seems so anxious to lead the conversa- 
tion to wiser subjects.” 

“ True,” replied Elizabeth ; “ but indeed, Catharine, I greatly 
prefer his conversation to Mr. St. Clair’s. I find it much more 
interesting. You know I have always found those men most 
agreeable, who treated us women most like equals and rational 
creatures. You, my dear Catharine, have been more accus- 
tomcnl to flattery, and admiring deference of opinion from the 
other sex than I have, and of course will feel the total want of 
this in Dunallan more than I do.” 

“ No, Elizabeth, it is not that foolish flattery I regret ; but 

3 


26 


DUN ALL AN ; OK, 


I am not accustomed to contemptuous, and disapproving looks, 
and I confess I do feel them,” added she, bursting into tears. 

“ My dearest Catharine, you entirely mistake his looks. You 
generally rely on what I say, and I declare were I asked what 
I thought his feelings for you were, I would say, that he already 
felt deeply interested, and even tenderly for you.” 

“ Dear Elizabeth,” exclaimed Catharine, rising, and speaking 
with much emotion, “ what an idea. For once you think, as 
you wish. Feel tenderly ! Is watching every word I say, in 
general to differ from me, tenderness ? Was that remark he made 
to me this morning, ‘ that' young women of fortune seemed to 
forget they were responsible creatures,’ tenderness ? Pie seems 
to consider me a spoiled child, an useless being, guided by no 
principle, but at the mercy of my own caprice. Oh, Eliza- 
beth ! I see he despises me ; and he has taught me to despise 
myself : for I feel, on reflection, that his opinion of me is not 
unjust.” 

“ I still think you quite mistaken, however,” replied P^liza- 
beth, “in the opinion you suppose he has formed of you. You 
remember the description he gave the other evening of a lady, 
a friend of his, Mrs. Henry Williams ? ” 

“ Perfectly, and I remember his looks when he turned to me 
while describing her ; they said, ‘ Attend, silly girl ; compare 
your aimless, trifling, useless life, with that of this truly virtu- 
ous, and religious, and marvellously active wife, and daughtei-, 
and mother, and friend, and sister, and every thing ! ’ I shall be 
introduced to this paragon, Elizabeth ; she lives near Arnmore, 
and I suppose Dunallan means me to regard her as my model ; 
with her schools, and cares for the poor, ‘which,’ uis he said, 
‘ did not consist in merely giving them money without inquiring 
into their temporal, and still more important concerns.’ Oh, I 
remember his very words ! ” 

“But, dear Catharine, what can you- condemn in his 
words?” 

“ Oh, nothing ! I wish I could.” 

“But, Catharine, I was going to tell you what he said of 
you.” 

“ Of me ! ” 


KNOW WIIAT YOU JUDGE. 


27 




ioil 

liat 

Kij 


in 

is 


0 ^ 

s 

3 


I *‘les. After describing Mrs. Henry Williams, he turned to 

,ne, and said in reply to my admiring praises of her character, 

' Your cousin, I thiiik, greatly resembles Mrs. Williams in her 
faatural disiX)sition, if I have rightly judged from the little I have 
Iseen of » her; and I think would have probably been a very 
similar character, had she been educated in the school of ad- 
versity, like poor Mi-s. Williams.’” . -i ji 

I “Is it possible he said this of me?” asked Catharine, eagerly. 

“Precisely as I have repeated it,” replied Elizabeth. 

, Catharine remained absorbed in thought for a few moments ; 
then awaking from her reverie, she exclaimed, “ But, Elizabeth, 
what has become of all the unexplained evil stpries we have 
heard of this same unaccountable Dunallan, his father, his 
sister?” ' • 


“ Oh, they cannot be true,” < replied Elizabeth; “-you know 
the. history about Mr. Clanmar must be without foundation, 
, since he called here yesterday, and seemed to regard Mr. Dun- 
! allan with the greatest affection and. respect.” 

■ “ He is a mystery altogether,” said Catharinec’gaily. 

! “ And so I am like ‘Mrs. Williams, only I require adversit^q’’ 

! added she, playfully ; “ perhaps Mr. Dunallan may supply this 
deficiency to me.” : , 

! A few evenings after this conversation. Lord Dunallan sent 
to request his daughter’s company in the library. Catharine 
dreaded this tUe a tete, but immediately attended her father. 
She found him . surrounded by papers. “ My dear child,” said 
I he, “ come and sit down by me. I wish to consult you on a 
' subject very intereliting to both of us. Y'ou know the fortune I 
shall leave you and your cousin will be immense. I am sure 
you will join me in thinking that my sister, your Elizabeth’s 
mother, ought not to suffer inconveniences from the rnarrowness 
of her fortune while we are so affluent. Her children are now 
advancing in life ; and I have been- thinking, that to leave. each 
of them an independence would be most agreeable to my sister, 
who is rather proud on these subjects, but who would not act 
contrary to the interests of her children. After your marriage, 
my love, I shall consider my fortune as a trust for you, there- 
fore ” 


28 


dunallan; or, 


« My dearest fatlier,” interrupted Catharine, do not spcaki 
thus:' Follow your own generous wishes. I liave never thought; 
of this. My aunt has always appeared comfortable and hapj)y,i 
1 knew she* was beloved by you. If there is any way of in-i 
creasing her happiness, I entreat you do not hesitate, or think j 
of the future.” ; 

“ How you run on, my Catharine. I never can get you to 
listen to these subjects ; but now, my love, it is your duty to [ 
attend to them. The wife or the mother who disregards these 
matters, may bring ruin and disgrace on those most dear to her. 1 
But to return to my sister, here is the letter I have written to | 
her, and the addition, I wish to make to the fortunes of her 
children.” 

Catharine read the letter, then said, “ I suppose, my dear 
father, you mean the sum you have mentioned for each of my 
cousins.” 

“ You are very magnificent in your ideas, my love, I mean 
what I have mentioned as a provision for the whole. Do you 
api)rove, my Catharine ?” i 

“Oh, most heartily; but do,' my dearest father, make it to 
each.” 

“ Pho’, child, you are foolish. But I must see Mr. Dunal- 
lan ; after what has passed between his father and me, 1 think 
myself accountable to hini for the way in which I spend my 
fortune.” . ; . 

“ I may go, T suppose,” said Catharine, rising. ' 

“ No, my love, stay.” '' > 

She reluctantly resumed her seat, and Dunallan soon ap- 
])earod. lie was informed of the business by Lord Dunallan. 

“ I request — I entreat, my Lord, you will never think of 
consulting me on such matters, nor suppose for a moment that 
I am capable of desiring to control your Lordship in the man- 
ner in which you choose to spend any part, or the whole oi 
your fortune.” He was retiring. Lord Dunallan entreated 
him to stay. ' f ■ 

. “ You will greatly oblige me, Mr. Dunallan, if you will act 
as the heir of my fortune — give me your opinion — let me feel 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


29 


that you are satisfied. You are acquainted with what passed 
between your fatlier and myself. In my situation you would 
feel as I do, that I cannot alienate any part of my fortune from 
the husband of my child without his concurrence. I beg, 
tlierefore, that on all occasions you will allow me to consult' 
you respecting my affairs.” 

He again offered the letter to Dunallan. 

‘‘ Impossible, my Lord,” said he, drawing back rather coldly. 
“I can interfere no farther in your Lordship’s concerns, than 
to say, that, if any transaction passed between you and my 
father, which your Lordship conceives gives me any title to in- 
terfere in the disposal of your fortune, you will allow me to 
M'ithdraw that title by any act which can do so.” ’ 

“ I know of no act, Mr. Dunallan,” replied his Lordship, 
])roudly, “ which can cancel the ])romises of a man of honor to 
j a friend after the death of that friend. But it is possible to 
I deprive myself of the pleasure I intended.” 

“ My Lord,” said Dunallan, “ pardon me. I knew not the 
nature of the engagement to which you alluded. Command 
me — I am willing to do precisely as you wish.” 

Lord Dunallan seemed unwilling to proceed in the business. 
Dunallan laid his hand on the letter, and looked lor his Lord- 
ship’s permission to read it. He bowed coldly. Dunallan 
perused it carefully, then asked if Lord Dunallan would permit 
him to add a few words. “ Certainly,” replied his Lordship, 
smiling in reply to Dunallan’s conciliating looks and tone of 
. voice. Dunallan .wrote a few words, and then returned the 
letter to his Lordship, who read the words he had written, and 
then presented it to Catharine, and said, smiling, “ I think, my 
love, Ml-. Dunallan and you have had some secret communica- 
tion about this affair.” 

Catharine read the words Dunallan had w-ritten — “I there- 
fore, my dear sister, request your acceptance of the provision I 
have mentioned.” Dunallan had added, “ For each of your 
dear children.” “ I hope my dear father, you will be persuaded 
by IMr. Dunallan,” said Catharine, eagerly. 

“ But my dear, I must sell an estate to raise this sum.” 

3 ^ 


DUNALLAN ; OR, 


“ Xo, my Lord, said Dunallan, that is imnecossary, my 
father left — but,” looking at Catharine,- “ your Lordship and I 
can settle all that at another time.” ' 

Lord Dunallan then proposed walking, as the evening was 
charming, and they found that the rest of the p.arty liad gone 
out. They walked together for some time, but at last Lord 
Dunallan, recollecting he had something to say to his steward, 
who had just passed them, he left Catharine to entertain her 
cousin. She had hitherto carefully avoided being left alone- 
with Dunallan, and the more so because she had :observed that 
he seemed rather anxious to detain her, when, notwithstanding 
all her care, she did happen to be found alone by him. She 
now looked in vain for the rest of the party ; they were not in 
sight, and, as she had just been adrnirhig the beauty of the 
evening, and had proposed to her father that they should walk 
to a particular hill a good way olf, she could find no pretext for 
leaving Dunallan. He offered his arm, and they walked on 
for a few moments in silence. Catharine dreaded his saying 
any tiling which might advert to their peculiar situation, and 
searched in her own mind for some subject of conversation as 
far fromdt as possible, but could find none. She was relieved 
from her search by Dunallan, whose first question seemed to 
say he had been equally anxious to avoid the subject. * 

“ Do you generally spend the winter at Dunallan Castle, Miss 
Dunallan?” 

“.Yes. We have spent two winters at Edinburgh, but. all 
the other winters of my life have been spent at Dunallan 
Castle.” . . , , 

“ Have you found your winters at Edinburgh pass more hap- 
pily than those at Dunallan Castle ? ” ; , i 

“ Not nearly so hapi^ily.” ^ ' 

“ Indeed ! ” . . 

“No, because on the whole we lived more retiredly at Edin- 
burgh than we do here.” ' ' 

“ And why so, may I be permitted to ask ?” 

Catharine hesitated. She could not tell Dunallan what she. 
believed was the true cause — her father’s solicitude to prevent 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


31 


tlie possibility of her forming any engagement which might 
prevent their future union. “ My father’s chief pleasures,” said 
she at last, “ consist in reading, and attending to county affaii-s, 
and the associates he prefers are either learned men, or those 
friends who' reside in our neighborhood. In Edinburgh, our 
society consisted of a few old gentlemen. Sir Hugh Cawdor, 

Professor B , Dr. L , and a few others, and one or two 

of our country neighbors, who went to town because we did.” 

“ And you tired extremely.” 

“ I did, because I knew gayer scenes, and society more suited 
to my taste, might easily have been enjoyed by me had my 
father permitted it. Even Elizabeth, who is so much more 
grave and sensible than I am, used to tire of our evenings at 
Edinburgh, and laugh at my miserable walks with my duenna, 
in the meadow ; for we lived in that dull part of the town called 
George’s Square.” 

Dunallan smiled, and asked “ whether she had never joined in 
any public amusement ? ” 

“ Oh yes, my father went with me as often as I chose to the 
theatre ; but I tired of the bad actors who are generally to be 
seen there. Oh I prefer Dunallan Castle a thousand times to 
that stupid town, which I never could sutler till towards the 
spring, when I was permitted to walk, or drive about to see the 
beautiful views in its neighborhood.” 

“ You have, indeed, many sources of amusement and jdcasure 
at this beautiful residence. Miss Dunallan, and I must com})li- 
ment you on the taste you have displayed in laying out those 
picturesque grounds in the glen. I knew not until to-day, that 
the plan was entirely yours. 'When I was here formerly, notli- 
ino- Avas to be seen there but woods — thick inq.)enetrable 
woods.” 

“Ah,” said Catharine, sighing, “I was greatly occupied 
Avhile my plan carrying into execution. I believe I Avas 
never more happy ; but Avhen it Avas finished I almost wished I 
could have restored the thick woods again. I wearied of its 
new form. I then amused myself by having that little Gothic 
building erected, Avdiich I endeavored, by reading many books 


32 


dunallan; or, 


on architecture, and by procuring numberless plans to make 
very perfect. I read every day for a month or two in that 
peaceful retreat, and I got suitable books, and Gothic furniture ; 
but I soon tired more there than anywhere else ; and though I 
had declared my determination that there I should enjoy com- 
plete solitude, and must not on any account be disturbed, I 'soon 
longed for some intruder. I had my harp carried there also, 
but' tired of the novelty of playing and singing alone. Now I 
scarcely ever go there but when I am in such low spirits as to 
hate company ; and I prefer any other walk to the glen.” 

“ Are you so very inconstant, Miss Dunallan ? ” asked her 
cousin, smiling. 

Catharine blushed. She had talked on in her usual way, ex- 
actly saying what came into her head, and what was indeed the 
real truth ; but this question, and the smile which accompanied 
it, recalled to her ideas how strongly this account of herself 
must contirm Dunallan in the opinion he had formed of her. 
She hesitated, then determining to affect nothing, she replied, “ I 
suppose I am very whimsical and inconstant, for none of tlie 
})ursuits I have ever followed have afforded me half the pleasure 
I expected.” 

“ Because,” replied Dunallan, with much gentleness, “ you 
have been given a mind, my dear Miss Dunallan, which cannot 
be satisfied with the pursuits you have hitherto followed. AYhat 
you have with so much ardor, made your first and favorite ob- 
jects of pursuit, (will you pardon me for saying it?) ought only 
to have been resorted to as recreations for a^raind such as yours. 
You will not be surprised when I own to you, that your char- 
acter has been my particular study ever since I have been here. 
I have endeavored to make myself acquainted with the nature 
of your pursuits. I have learned with what unwearied eager- 
ness you followed them ; and have now heard you confess your 
disappointment. I have seen your glen, your Gothic building, 
your garden, your green-house, your music room, your library, 
your paintings.” 

Oh ! stop this enumeration,” exclaimed Catharine. “ I 
am sufficiently ashamed of my changeable unsatisfied feel- 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


33 


i mgs. But there are some things, Mr. Dunallan, in which I 
! have never changed. My father and Elizabeth are always the 
r ^sanie to me. It is because I have had but few living objects of 
interest, that I have endeavored 5to fix my affections on those 
‘ which are incapable of satisfying the heart.” 

“ When Elizabeth is with you, do you never feel any of this 
weariness and dissatisfaction ? ” asked Dunallan, mildly, 

“Not so much; and if I had several Elizabeths, I dare say I 
should never feel if.” ' ; i 

“My dear Miss Dunallan,” replied her cousin, “ do not sup- 
pose that I presume to censure you, or any pursuit that has' ‘af- 
forded you pleasure. I rather wished to express the admiration 
I felt, for the correct and beautiful taste which has led you, in 
comparative retirement, to arrive at a perfection in those pursuits 
wdiich I have looked for in vain among those who have had 
opportunities of forming their ideas from the first models in the 
world.” . 

“ Flattery ? even from you, Mr. Dunallan ! this I did-'hot 
expect.”; ; • ' • ■ f ' 

“ I do not flatter, Miss Dunallan. I speak my real sentiments, 
jft All I have seen done by your direction, to improve the scenery 
Faround you, has, in my opinion, been charmingly doneh Your 
Gothic reading retirement is in the most correct taste ; your gar- 
den — all, indeed, appears to me in an uncommon degree perfect. 
^ Your paintings are so, from the just taste which has prevented 
. your attempting' what is beyond the power of almost any but 
r artists to attain. Your music, from the same reason, is singu- 
> larly pleasing. . i In short, you must not be displeased with me 
when I say, that I greatly admire both your natural powers, and 

( the energy with which they have been cultivated. And allow 
me to add, that the more interest I feel in the possessor of these 
powers, the more anxious shall I be to see them directed to ob- 
f jects whicli. will afford her a more pleasing reward than 'the 
^ weariness of which she complains, and which, though felt I be- 
lieve by all . who are engaged in trifling pursuits, becomes the 
supreme misery of a superior mind.” 

There was something so earnest, yet kind and gentle, in Dun- 


34 


DUNALLAN ; OK, 


allan’s 'voice and manner, that Catharine felt softened. * “ 1 
long most earnestly,” replied she, “ to have such pursuits in my 
power.” 

“ And may I ask,” returned Dunallan, “ were you completely 
your own mistress, what would be the first object of your 
Avishes ? ” 

“ Oh ! ” said Catharine, friends — friends 'whom I could love. 

I would search for them Avherever I went ; and I should go every- 
where and see every thing that is Avorth seeing.” 

“ And where would you first go, in this search ? ” 

“ To London, perhaps ? ” 

“ To London in search of friends ! ” interrupted Dunallan, 
smiling. r 

“ I should expect to meet the most polished and agreeable 
society of my country there,” replied Catharine, “ and among 
them I surely might find some to love, and many to admire ; a 
sentiment I have scarcely ever experienced, and thought so very 
delightful when I did.” 

“ Delightful indeed ! ” replied Dunallan, “ but after you have 
found friends, and objects of admiration ? ” — 

“ I should in their society enjoy AAdiateA^cr offered : books — 
the theatre. We might travel in other countries,. in search of 
those beauties and perfections not to be found in our own. Oh ! 
I should never be unhappy anyAvhere, surrounded by those I 
loved.” 

They had noAv reached the summit of the hill to Avhich- Cath- 
arine proposed walking. After having sloAvdy ascended by a 
path rendered almost dark by the deep woods which surrounded 
and overshadoAved them, they at onee, on turning a rocky point, 
came upon an opening in the road Avhich discovered a scene of 
extreme grandeur and beauty. The hill on which they stood, 
steep, rocky, and covered with hanging woods, was washed at 
its base by the gently SAvelling waves of a far extended inland 
bay, while all around rose woody hills and bold toAvering moun- 
tains, sometimes nearly meeting, and then receding, as if to dis- 
close the beauteous lakes that lay within their sheltering gran- 
deur, and now reflected in softened majesty the wild and varied 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


35 


I beauties of their guardian mountains. Far beyond was seen a 
! boundless ocean, peaceful and sublime, and here and there the 
faint but picturesque outline of some distant islands, half ming- 
ling with the clouds that glowed around the setting sun. All 
nature seemed hushed in silent pleasure. No sound was heard 
but the distant plash of oars from the little fishing boats that 
I slowly glided homewards. The song of the blackbird, soft and 
I wild, added sweetness and sadness to the feelings inspired by 
I the universal cairn, and sublime grandeur of the scene, 
j “ What a scene ! ” exclaimed Dunallan. They both for some 
j moments gazed in silent admiration. 

I “ I do not remember this magnificent view,” resumed he. 

! “ How could I, even as a boy, be so dead to all that is great 
j and beautiful in nature ? ” 

I “It was not then known to be so fine,” said Catharine. “.It 
I is so onljf from this side of the hill ; and no one had thought of 
j clearing away the wood, which was so close and thick as wholly 
I to interrupt the view.” 

I “ This, then, is another instance of your taste. Miss Dunal- 
; Ian,” said her cousin, 
i She smiled. 

“ And do you weary of this also? ” asked he. 

“ Oh never. But this glorious scene inspires feelings almost 
as painful as weariness. One’s mind feels so bounded, so con- 
fined, so dark — amidst such splendid displays of nature.” 

“ Of nature ! ” repeated Dunallan. He paused and looked at 
Catharine. “ What or who is nature ? ” continued he. “ Shall 
we, when we gaze on such a scene as this, say, ‘ The heavens 
j declare the glories of nature — the earth is full of her glory ? ’ 

' Why, my dear Miss Dunallan, should we substitute a mere idea 
in the room of the glorious Being who has created that profusion 
of magnificence and beauty, and who formed in the human heart 
a capacity to feel so deeply what is magnificent and beautiful ? 
Why, by ascribing this glory to a vague idea, separate ourselves 
still farther from its real and ever present Author, who so pow- 
erfully solicits and demands our affections, and claims even the 
first place in our hearts ? It is because love is the natural con'- 


86 


DUNALLAN; OR, 


sequence of admiration, that we feel a sort of oppression on oui 
feelings when we most intensely admire the glories around us. 
without raising our hearts to their Author. We cannot love 
inanimate nature in the degree we admire it. We cannot love 
an undefined idea ; and we do not make ourselves acquainted 
with the character of the real Author, nor regard the light he 
pours around us in every part of his creation.” 

Catharine felt awed by Dunallan’s manner ; but after a pause 
/eplied, “ Was nature always as we now see it, we should cer- 
tainly wish to discard whatever might prevent us from attempt- 
ing to ascend in thought to its divine Author : but I have seen 
that bay dark, and gloomy, and dangerous — the trees on its 
banks rent by the storm — the boats tossing on the waves. I 
have been detained hours in this shelter, watching their perilous 
landing, while wives and children and mothers, were suffering 
anguish from their terrors. Then — ” 

“ Then,” mildly interrupted Dunallan, “ the lesson was only 
different, and taught what is equally necessary to be known, — 
that the Being who generally speaks to us in the language of i 
love and mercy can also frown.” The sound of approaching 
voices now interrupted this conversation. 

“ I hear your friends advancing,” said Dunallan, apparently 
rather disappointed by the interruption ; “ before we part may I' 
ask whether the life you described to me at the beginning of our 
walk was the life you would deem most happy ? ” 

“ If I recollect aright what I said, it was,” replied Cath- 
arine. 

“ It was merely a life of pleasure and amusement,” said 
Dunallan. 

“ And would not that be happiness ? ” 

“ No : and if you expect it to be so, be assured, dear Miss 
Dunallan, you will be disappointed.” 

“ What life, then, would be happy ? ” 

A life of usefulness alone.” 

The party now approached and seemed surprised at finding 
Catharine and Dunallan. 

. “I thought you were with Lord Dunallan, my dear Cath- 


KNOW AVIIAT YOU JUDGE. 


37 


arine,” said Rose, “Mr. St. Clair assured me that you 
were.” 

“ And so I Avas, for a short time, dear Rose,” replied Cath- 
arine. f > 

St. Clair seemed displeased and uncomfortable ; young 
Cameron miserable. Catharine still leant on Dunallan’s arm ; 
and taking a last look of the bay and its surrounding moun- 
tains, now darkening in the tAvilight, they turned to descend the 
hill. The path admitted of two only. Catharine and Dunal- 
lan Avalked on in silence. Her thouglits were fixed on his last 
words, “ a life of usefulness ; ” she wished to knoAV his ideas of 
such a life. The conversation this evening had increased her 
esteem for Dunallan, 3"et she felt even less able than before to 
understand him. She Avished, however, that she could, and 
determined that, in future, she would not avoid his society. 
As they were entering the house, she said to him, smil- 

“ Mr. Dunallan, you must tell me Avhat you think is a useful 
life at some other time.” 

“ I shall be most happy to tell you,” replied he, “ and if you 
would agree with me — if in this we could be of the same opin- 
ion;” he hesitated — then stopped, and left the sentence un- 
finished. 

St. Clair was near, and heard what passed. They then 
joined the party in the drawing-room. St. Clair almost imme- 
diately addressed Dunallan in his usual slighting tone of voice 
and manner. 

“ Pray, Mr. Dunallan, are you one of those people Avho ap- 
prove of young ladies teaching poor children to read the Bible, 
etc. etc. instead of sending them, in the good old Avay, to be 
taught by some old woman in the village ? ” 

“ I think,” replied Dunallan, with unmoved calmness, “ that 
where there is an old w^oman capable of teaching, it would be 
a pity to supersede her in her profession ; but I think young 
ladies most properly and most amiably employed in superintend- 
ing and encouraging the old woman in her labors.” 

“ Well,” resumed St. Clair, “I confess I have not been able 

4 


38 


dunallan; or, 


to perceive the benefit poor children can receive from the 
instructions of young ladies that they might not equally receive 
from that of old women; and I mean, when I get a seat in 
Parliament, to offer my services to the old ladies, to bring a bill 
to guard the profession against those pretty intruders ; and that 
for their sakes as much as that of the old ladies ; for I know 
nothing so likely to injure the charms of the lovelier sex as the 
air and manner of a school-mistress.” 

All the young ladies laughed excepting Rose. 

“ I beg, Mr. St. Clair,” said Mrs. Lennox, “ that you will have 
the goodness to let that subject remain at rest. Teaching the 
poor is the fashion of the day, and my poor Rose has been 
infected by it ; but she has an inaptitude about her at doing any 
thing, even a fashionable thing, fashionably. Instead of sub- 
scribing, as I do, to Lady Mary D.’s school in our neighbor- 
hood, and always going to its examinations, and presenting the 
children with new dresses, — for they have such a neat uni- 
form, — instead of this, my poor Rose must have a dozen little 
miserable things, who are too sickly to walk so far as the scliool, 
in her room, and teach them to read the Bible, during those 
very hours I wished her to devote to her harp.” 

Rose blushed, and tears started into her eyes. “ You know, 
mamma, I was to rise two hours earlier for my hari3.” 

“ Oh, yes, my dear, and look like a ghost from want of sleep ! 
Ridiculous ! ” 

“ Surely,” said George Lennox, “ ten hours of sleep is too 
much, cither for health, or in a moral point of view.” 

“ Dear George,” said Mrs. Lennox, “ do not encourage your 
sister. She will think I was quite cruel in preventing her 
spending the precious hours necessary to acquire those accom- 
plishments, which are quite indispensable, in teaching a few 
miserable cottagers, what, if they are to live, they will learn 
equally well in the next village.” 

“ Which is four miles ofi’,” said George, “ and the school not 
large enough to admit nearly all the children who have strength 
to Avalk ; consequently, half the girls around us have scarcely 
any. means of instruction.” 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


39 


“ I did not know you were so intimately acquainted with their 
affairs, George,” said his mother, trying to smile. 

“I am perfectly acquainted with their situation,” replied 
George, “ and long most earnestly to see it improved.” 

“Well, I declare,” exclaimed Sir Archibald Cameron, 
addressing Lord Dunallan, “I think there is something very 
amiable in the enthusiasm for improving the state of the poor, 
which is so general at present among well-disposed young 
!' people.” 

“Very amiable indeed,” replied his Lordship, with an air of 
absence. 

“ Certainly,” 'said Mrs. St. Clair, “improve the lower orders 
as much as possible by proper means ; but not by young ladies 
forgetting their places in society, and doing that themselves 
which ought to be left to more proper persons, while they 
neglect” 

“ Their harps,” interrupted Dunallan, playfully. 

“ Oh I forgot, Mr. Dunallan, that you were an advocate for 
ladies’ schools.” 

Dunallan attempted to change the subject, wLich seemed 
disagreeable or uninteresting to most of the party ; but St. Clair 
appeared determined to pursue it, and appealed to Catharine 
for her opinion. 

“ I have not formed any,” replied she, languidly ; her thoughts 
had indeed wandered from a subject in which she felt little 
interest. 

St. Clair looked disappointed at the careless indifference of 
her manner ; she perceived this, and said smiling, “ I can tell 
you, however, what my opinion is, without taking time to 
consider what it ought to be. I believe it is proper to have the 
poor children taught all that may afterwards be useful to them ; 
but I think it would be very tiresome to do it myself : and I 
suspect that the young ladies who do it have, in general (perhaps 
almost unconsciously) some secret view to praise, or, in short, 
something more agreeable than the mere pleasure of imparting 
knowledge to the ignorant.” 

St. Clair laughed. “Ah! Miss Dunallan,” exclaimed he. 


40 


DUNALLAN ; -OR, 


your penetration leads you to the truth, direct, without a tedious 
attempt to form a wise opinion.” 

“ The discovery of such truths, however,” said Dunallan, in 
a tone of voice almost severe, “ does more honor to the pener 
tration of the head than to the feelings of the heart.” 

Catharine reddened, and bowing to Dunallan said, “It is 
perhaps fortunate for me, IMi*. Dunallan, that of late, I have 
found it necessary to avoid consulting the heart; I might 
otherwise have felt your compliment too deeply.” She then 
rose and went towards her harp, to conceal the tears she could 
not restrain. 

St. Clair glanced indignantly at Dunallan, and then followed 
her; an expression of pleasure, however, was also on his 
countenance! Dunallan became very thoughtful, and the ladies 
looked at each other. 

“ You see the consequences of your foolish schools. Rose,” 
said Mrs. Lennox, in a whisper to her daughter ; “ you have 
made your young friend quite unhappy.” 

Rose seemed to believe herself the cause of what had 
passed; and going towards Dunallan said, in a low voice, 
“I believe Catharine is quite right; I did hope I should 
be doing something worthy of praise in teaching those poor 
children:” 

Dunallan smiled, “ But that was not your motive for doing 
it. Miss Lennox.” 

“ Oh, perhaps it might ; at any rate, it does not signify how 
it was. Don’t you like the harp.^ Let us go near.” 

Dunallan followed the sweet girl. St. Clair was attempting 
to recommend himself to Catharine by the most flattering 
description of a scene he had witnessed that day, — a family 
who, from great wretchedness, had been placed in a situation 
of comfort by Catharine’s bounty. Dunallan listened eagerly. 
St. Clair used all his eloquence to reconcile her to herself. 
Rose joined in admiration of her friend’s goodness ; young 
Cameron also was more eloquent than usual in the eulogium he 
bestowed on this idol of his heart. All seemed anxious to 
make up to her for the cruel speech of Dunallan ; but in vain ; 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


41 


a cloud was fixed on Catharine’s brow which nothing could 
remove during the whole of the evening. She tired of the 
luiSrp, and entreating Rose to take her place, and putting her 
arm within Elizabeth’s, she passed Dunallan with an air of 
extreme coldness, and led her friend to another part of the 
room, showing by her looks that she did not wish to be fol- 
lowed. Elizabeth, when she saw that the gentlemen were at- 
tempting to converse with the party of young ladies they had 
left, said in a low voice, “ I feel that you have some cause to 
be displeased, dear Catharine, but do not, my friend, show your 
feelings so much; try at least to conceal them for a short 
time.” 

“ I cannot,” replied Catharine, “ I never felt more miser- 
able.” 

“You do not feel more so than he does,” said Elizabeth, 
glancing towards Dunallan, who stood in deep thought near 
Rose’s harp. 

Catharine followed Elizabeth’s look, and then sighed deeply. 
“ His misery is no comfort to me. He must be miserable, 
thinking of me as he does. Oh! what wretchedness is before 
us both 1 ” 

During the remainder of the evening, Catharine purposely 
avoided meeting Dunallan’s looks. When parting for the 
night, he held out his hand as usual ; she gave him hers ; he 
held it for a moment, and she involuntarily looked up. Dun- 
allan’s manner seemed to ask forgiveness, but Catharine turned 
coldly away. He pressed her hand gently in his, saying, 

“ Good-night,” in a voice more than usually soft. Catharine 
felt she had cause to be displeased, yet was touclred by his' 
manner. Elizabeth, on this occasion, did not defend Dunallan, 
for she too had thought him harsh. When they again met, 
Catharine’s manner was distant and somewhat haughty. Eliz- 
abeth’s was also colder. Dunallan seemed painfully sensible 
of the change. He endeavored at different times to induce 
Catharine to enter into conversation with him, but she purposely 
avoided it: and once that he found her alone, she turned so 
markedly from him, that, though he still appeared anxious, by 

d * 


42 


DUNALLAN; OR, 


every other means, to regain her approbation, he no longer 
attempted to resume that intercourse which had, in some degree, 
subsisted between them before that unfortunate evening. He 
looked unhappy, however, and Catharine now felt her power. 
This almost unconsciously gave her pleasure, which she still 
more unconsciously betrayed in her manner ; and it was Dun- 
allan himself who led her to perceive this : she felt that he 
read her very soul, and was soon convinced, by the indifference 
of his manner, that if her displeasure had given him pain, her 
feeling satisfaction in that pain had not only done it away, but 
had also lowered her in his opinion. 


CHAPTER IV. 

One evening Lord Dunallan sent for his daughter. On her 
entering the apartment in which he waited for her, he met her, 
and with even more than his usual tenderness, pressed her to 
his heart. 

“ My dear Catharine, my beloved child, my long dreaded 
trial is at last come ; I must at last part with the idol of my 
affections.” 

Catharine became as pale as death at this sudden intimation 
of her approaching fate. For some moments she could not 
speak ; then struggling for composure, — 

“ Is Mr. Dunallan still desirous to — .” Her voice trembled,, 
and she stopt. 

Her father hesitated, My love, what is your opinion of Mr. 
Dunallan ? You now know him. Tell me candidly, my Cath- 
arine, your sentiments respecting him.” 

“ And will my opinion, will my sentiments, have any influ- 
ence over the future ? ” asked Catharine, eagerly. 

Lord Dunallan looked uneasy : If, my love, I could make 
any change — if you could not feel — but it is impossible. Yet 
I should wish — could you only love him, Catharine, oh ! how 
happy should I be, happier than I can express.” 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


43 


‘‘Be happy, then, my dear father,” replied Catharine, at- 
tempting to smile ; l3ut the tears gushed into her eyes, and she 
turned away to conceal them. 

Her father remained silent for some moments, then sighing 
deeply said, “ Mr. Dunallan, I think, my Catharine, ought to 
please. He is mild, and sensible, and polite in his manners ; he 
is handsome ; his conversation does not seem uninteresting to 
you ; he is singularly well informed. In short, what do you 
find disagreeable in Mr. Dunallan ? ” 

“ I do not find any thing o?{sagreeable,” said Catharine ; 
“but — ” 

“ Do you not, my love ? ” interrupted Lord Dunallan, joyfully. 
“ How you delight me ! well, I will ask no more.” 

Catharine smiled languidly ; she felt hurt, and made no reply. 

Her father understood the expression of her countenance, 
and paused a moment, then proceeded. “ I have just had a 
conversation with Mr. Dunallan. He tells me he has received 
letters which oblige him to be in London in a month ; he will 
be detained there some time, and may perhaps go abroad. In 
short, my love, he wishes to hasten your union, that you may, 
I suppose, spend a short time at Arnmore before you leave 
Scotland ; for there also he has business of importance, which 
has met with much delay from his residence here for so many 
weeks.” 

Catharine reddened. “ And his convenience makes it neces- 
sary, I suppose, to hurry over the business which brought him 
here ; and you, my Lord, expect me to agree to — ” 

“ My love, you do Mr. Dunallan great injustice : he has in 
no instance forgot the respect and delicacy due to you : his first 
wish seems to be your happiness.” 

“ My happiness ! ” repeated Catharine, “ ah, let him leave me 
with you, then, my dear father — at least till he has arranged 
all these affairs.” 

“ He proposed this, my child, but I declined it.” 

“ Declined it ! ” exclaimed Catharine, “ impossible ! Oh, my 
dear father, could you so far forget all that is due to your 
daughter ! to my sex ! ” 


44 


DUNALLAN; OR, 


She rose and stood, with breathless and terrified expectation, 
awaiting his answer. 

He in a soothing manner took both her hands. “ Be calm, 
my Catharine, your father has forgot nothing which your deli- 
cacy ought to require ; nothing which he can suppose essential 
to your future happiness. Mr. Dunallan, I am certain, loves 
you, Catharine.” 

She turned away. 

“ You do not think he does, my love ; but from his whole 
manner, and the anxious solicitude he showed respecting your 
wishes, feelings, and future happiness, I feel convinced you 
would now be the choice of his heart, were he freed from all 
engagements.” 

“ And as a proof of this,” said Catharine, with bitterness, “ he 
asks delay. Oh, my dear father, pity me ! do not urge this ! 
do not thxts mortify ” 

“ My love, you must allow me to trust my own judgment in 
this matter. You entirely mistake Mr. Dunallan. He only 
proposes delay with a view to what might be your wisn. 
Recollect yourself, my child, and let me hope, my ever kind, 
ever considerate Catharine, that you will still be willing to fulfil 
past and indissoluble engagements.” 

“ And when, my Lord ? ” replied Catharine, with assumed 
firmness. 

“ My Catharine, I have promised to Mr. Dunallan, to gain 
yo':.r consent to be his, on Tuesday next.” 

“ On Tuesday next ! within a week ! ” she became quite pale, 
but added, in a voice of forced calmness, “ My Lord, I shall be 
ready.” 

He held out his hand, she gave him hers, but turned away 
her face. “ Dearest Catharine, you will be happy.” She made 
no reply, but hastening from him, shut herself into her own 
apartment, and gave vent to her miserable and mortified feel- 
ings. She was unable to appear at dinner, her head ached 
so violently. Elizabeth, in vain, tried to oifer some consolation. 
Her wounded pride and affection had prevented her gaining any 
particulars from her father of the manner in which he had 


I 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


45 


declined Dunallan’s proposed delay ; yet the idea that he had 
hastened their union against Dunallan’s wishes, rendered her 
wretched. She could not regain sufficient composure to appear 
that evening. Her father, however, visited her in her room ; 
and his affeetionate kindness, and the anxiety and deep concern 
expressed in his countenance, revived in her heart a willingness 
to sacrifice her own feelings to his favorite wishes. 

She next morning appeared at breakfast, but looked so ill 
that every one annoyed her by their condolence, and inquiries 
respecting her health. To Dunallan she never raised her eyes. 
K she had, she would have seen that he looked as miserable as 
j^erself. Elizabeth told her so afterwards. 

“My dear Elizabeth,” replied she, “do not speak to me of 
him, or of any thing that is not a thousand miles from the sub- 
ject, or I shall never be able to support myself till next Tues- 
day. I will, if possible, make my father happy. After that, 
happen what will, I shall be at a distance from him. He will 
not know what I suffer.” 

Elizabeth tenderly watched over her unhappy friend, attempt- 
ing to soothe her agitated feelings, and to convince her that the 
power to meet approaching trials, is not to be gained by turning 
the mind from them ; but, on the contrary, by viewing them, 
as far as may be, in their true colors, divested of all imaginary 
aggravations, and thus preparing for the patient endurance of 
what is unavoidable. 

“ Do not follow me, my Elizabeth,” said Catharine, the even- 
ing after her conversation with her father, “ I am going to the 
Glen ; I shall not there be iifterrupted ; and I wish to accustom 
myself to view the future without your kind looks and dear 
voice always ready to win me from painful thought.” 

Elizabeth believed her right, and suffered her to go alone. 

After Catharine had walked some time in deep thought, she 
was suddenly startled by the sound of approaching footsteps. 
It is Dunallan ! thought she ; even this retreat is no longer safe 
from his privileged intrusion. She would have turned away, 
but felt ashamed of her weakness ; and raised her head from 
its drooping and thoughtful posture, determined not to be in- 


46 


DUNALLAN ; OK, 


♦ruded on even by Dunallan. It was young Cameron; and 
Catharine felt so relieved when she saw it was not her dreaded 
cousin, that an expression of pleasure, which Cameron had sel- 
dom the happiness to inspire, was visible on her countenance. 

“ Pardon this intrusion. Miss Dunallan,” said he ; “ I thought 

you were engaged, or I should not have presumed ” 

“ Oh ! I beg, Mr. Cameron, you will walk wherever you 
feel inclined,” interrupted Catharine. “ There are many paths 
here for solitary people ; but I must at present leave you.” She 
was passing on, when the beseeching expression of his looks stopt 
her. “ Do you wish to read in my retreat, Mr. Cameron ? 
You will find some' new books, and I am not going there.” ^ 
“ No, Miss Dunallan, I wish for a moment’s conversation Avldi 
you.” 

^ Certainly,” said Catharine, turning to walk with him. 

He seemed at a loss and unable to speak. Catharine looked 
at him, and his confusion leading her to suspect the truth, she 
felt sorry that she had consented to listen to him, yet wished as 
soon as possible to put an end to his suspense. She walked on 
in silence. At length after many attempts, he regained sufficient 
composure to say, in a hurried voice, “ Miss Dunallan, it is 
impossible for any one so deeply interested in your happiness 
as I am, not to feel miserable in seeing the present state of yK)ur 

feelings, or to help almost execrating the unnatural ” 

“ Mr. Cameron,” interrupted Catharine, “ I cannot stay to 
hear any thing of this nature.” 

She was turning away, when he respectfully, yet almost 
wildly, seized her hand. “ Forg^e me ; I know not what I 
say. Oh, Catharine, if you knew what I have suffered, what I 

do suffer — but I know you cannot feel for me ” 

“ I do feel for you, Mr. Cameron,” interrupted Catharine ; 
“ and, as a proof of it, I entreat you never to think of me more, 
but as a friend who grieves to think she has ever pained you. 
It is impossible you can regain the happiness I wish you, think- 
ing otherwise. Next Tuesday I am to be the wife of Mr. 
Dunallan.” 

“ I know it, Catharine ; but without loving him. You ! the 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


4f 


idol of so many hearts — you whom I would die to preserve 

from the least uneasiness, are to . Oh ! I cannot endure 

the thought. Hear me, Catharine. If have formed a plan to 
avoid this cruel sacrifice — my mother has consented ; — I ask 
no reward — I hope for nothing.” 

/ “ Mr. Cameron,” interrupted Catharine, “you must say no 
more. I thank you for the interest you feel in my fate ; but you 
■quite mistake my character, if you think I could thus consent 
to withdraw from an engagement formed by my father. Fare- 
well, and for your sake, let me say, for a long time.” 

Catharine spoke with a firm calmness, that left . Cameron no 
hope of inducing her to change her sentiments. He pressed 
her hand to his heart; “Farewell, then, Catharine, for ever ; 
my first, my only love, my last.” He rushed from her. She 
looked after him, till the trees concealed him from her sight, 
then burst into tears. “ What a world is this ! ” thought she ; 
“ how unhappy the human race. In this remote corner, a few 
are met together ; and even hero where all promises peace, the 
half of them are miserable.” 

She walked slowly towards the house, fearing again to meet 
young Cameron. 

The party were assembled in a room which opened on the 
lawn. She heard voices, and approached. As she drew near, 
she distinguished Dunallan’s voice, and Elizabeth’s. They 
seemed gay and cheerful. “ Is it possible,” thought she, “ Eliz- 
abeth told me he looked miserable^ — and she, too, so gay ! 
How foolish to suppose myself of so much consequence to 
others. I will not cloud their gaiety by my melancholy pres- 
ence ; yet I could not have thus laughed had Elizabeth been so 
wretched.” Dunallan’s voice continued as if reading and paus- 
ing at intervals, while the others laughed and talked. Catha- 
rine turned away to go to her own apartment. As she passed, 
she perceived St. Clair seated in a window, in a melancholy and 
thoughtful attitude, and apparently unoccupied with what was 
passing. He started on seeing her, and arose : she bowed and 
passed on. 

In a few minutes Elizabeth joined her. “ You promised to 
come to us, my dear Catharine, when you returned.” 


48 


D.UNALLAN J OR, 


i I mean tdjkeep my promise/? replied Catharine, “ but I am 
tired.: leave me to' rest a little here. Do not let me, Elizabeth, 
interrupt , your amusements.” 

:• Amusements ! Catharine, what do you mean ? ” “ Oh, 

nothing. But come now, I am ready to go with you.” 
oi! She hastened away from Elizabeth, and joined the party 
below, iwho had now become perfectly quiet. St. Clair still sat 
at the window.. He -rose on her entrance. She seated herself 
near the window. “ You are admiring the evening, Mr. St. 
Clair : it is indeed beautiful.” ' • 

f>i. St. Clair 'sat 'down by her. “ Beautiful, indeed,” replied he, 
but very sad. Those gray clouds, tinged with the last rays of 
•the sun, becoming fainter every moment, always remind me of 
something melancholy .”i . 

j “.I feel the same,”^ said Catharine ; “ the setting sun always 
reminds me of death ! that last setting ! that departure to other 
climes'! ” ‘..i . . * • * - 

Let us'!go into the next room, or have lights here,” said 
Lord Dunallan. 

1 * Oh, my dear father, allow us to enjoy this peaceful twi- 
light,” said Catharine, in an entreating tone of voice, 
f; Surely, my love, if you wish it.” He approached and stood 
near, her ; “ but we must leave such gloomy subjects, Mr. St. 
Glair. Where is that strange poem you were reading, Mr. 
Dunallan? Perhaps there still 'may be sufficient light to read 
it to Catharine.” - ? i 

V ; Dunallan found the poem; and, bringing it to the window, 
began to read. All laughed a second time. Catharine could 
hardly smile : she was not in a humor to laugh at any thing, 
and wondered that any one could.* St. Clair smiled contempt- 
uously, and she better understood his feelings. Dunallan had 
not spoken since she entered the room; and she never looked 
at him until'he was reading this poem ; indeed she had avoided 
looking at him for many days, and was now struck with the 
languor and paleness of his countenance, as well as with the 
little real cheerfulness he seemed to feel while he laughed with 
the others. When he ' stopped reading, he turned his eyes 


k:now what you judge. 


49 


towards Catharine. Hers were fixed on him, and she withdrew 
them without that expression of displeasure, which ever since 
her conversation with her father had filled them when she was 
in 'anj'way called upon to notice Dunallan. He ventured to 
5 approach her, and said, in a voice of extreme gentleness, “ you 

I f seem fatigued. Miss Hunallan ; I fear you have walked too far.” 
I “ Yes, ’’.answered Catharine, “ I believe 1 have;” she almost 
|| unconsciously added, looking at Dunallan with an expression of 
i concern, “areyow quite well Mr. Dunallan?” ' 

“Perfectly so,” replied he, a slight flush tinging his -forehead. 
He looked down for a moment, but his eyes still retained an ex- 
pression of pleasure when he again raised them.; ' 

The conversation now became more general. When the sun 
was set, and it was become too dark to see the expression of any 
one’s countenance, young Cameron glided into the room, and 
seated himself at a distance from Catharine. He sometimes 
joined in the conversation, and no one would have suspected 
him of being more unhappy than usual. 

When Catharine retired to her room for the night, she found 
a letter on her table. She opened it, exclaiming, “ a letter from 
St. Clair ! ” Elizabeth was with her. “ What can he have to 
say to you, Catharine ? ” \ 

“ A strange proposal,” said Catharine, after reading it. “ How 
little does he know me.” She threw his letter indignantly from 
her. 

- Elizabeth took it up. “ May I read it, Catharine ? ” 

“I believe I ought not to betray his secret; but you, Eliza- 
beth, may know it. He is so vain, so conceited, I can never 
wish him to stand high in your opinion.” 

Elizabeth read the letter. “Poor St. Clair,” said she, “he 
flatters himself he is not indifferent to you.” 

“ If -he had not been so before,” replied Catharine, “ this 
would have made him so. An elopement ! Had he known my 
character as he pretends in this letter to do, he would have been 
convinced that I would sooner endure any misery than escape 
from it by such means. I would sooner die than degrade my- 
self even for those I could love.” 

5 


50 


DUNALLAN ; OK, 


“ Proud Catharine,” said Elizabeth, smiling, “ you know not 
what love is.” 

“ I certainly do not know, Elizabeth, nor can I even conceive 
what that sort of love is which could induce me to take such a 
degrading step as this. I cannot imagine myself so deluded as 
to suppose I, could be happy after I had rendered myself the 
object of my own contempt. But give me this letter. It does 
not pain me to disappoint this vain St. Clair. I wish he was 
gone, and his mother also, whose haughty spirit begins, I see, 
to revolt at the little effect her flattery and caresses have on me. 
I loathe all this, Elizabeth. I almost think Arnmore and Mr. 
Dunallan’s contemptuous treatment, will be less intolerable than 
those incessant women, Mrs. Lennox and Mrs. St Clair, with 
their gross flattery, and teazing, disgusting attentions.” 

“ Dear Catharine, you are very severe.” 

“No, Elizabeth; I am not unjustly so. Don’t I see through 
all this ? Is not Bose as amiable — far more amiable than I 
am ? Are not you, Elizabeth, more ” 

“ No, no, no, dear Catharine ; but good-night ; you will 
leave yourself no time to sleep, and that pale face sadly calls 
for it.” 

“ Do not mind my face, Elizabeth ; it must be paler yet. 
You must see my reply to this letter ; I feel so indignant, I fear 
I shall be unbecomingly so in what I write.” 

Next morning, neither St. Clair nor young Cameron appeared 
at breakfast. Lady Cameron said her son had been unexpect- 
edly called away, and that she and her family must also deny 
themselves the pleasure of a farther stay at Dunallan Castle, as 
business made it necessary that Sir Archibald should return 
home. Lord Dunallan seemed disappointed, and entreated them 
to prolong their stay to the following week. Catharine was 
silent. Lady Cameron, however, was gently determined in her 
resolution, though she looked concerned, and her daughters very 
grave. Lord Dunallan perceived that something had happened, 
and guessed from Catharine’s looks that she was the cause of 
this sudden determination. Mrs. St. Clair’s color this mornino- 

o 

was higher than usual, but she attempted to conceal her disap- 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


51 


pointed pride and hopes under an air of contempt. “ I, too, must 
unfortunately relincpiish the pleasure of being j)resent during the 
next happy week, my Lord,” said she, after Lady Cameron had 
announced her intended departure, “ but it is easy to part from 
friends when we leave them so secure of felicity.” Catharine 
felt this speech as it was intended, but remained silent. Both 
families left Dunallan Castle during the forenoon ; but Lord 
Dunallan was relieved from his dread of a Y^ry small party by 
the arrival of young Clanmar and his amiable wife. 

“ I must really endeavor, my dear Elizabeth,” said Catharine 
to her friend, “ to conceal, for these few remaining days, the 
misery I endure. I feel mortified and degraded by what has 
already passed in consecpience of my giving way to my wretched 
feelings. I must not — shall not be an object of com- 
passion to every one, and of distress to my father. Do 
not look so much and so anxiously at me when I am in com- 
pany, Elizabeth, and try to speak cheerfully to me. Oh that 
conversation between my father and Dunallan ! could I only 
forget that. But to be forced upon him ; he to ask delay ! ” 
She clasped her hands in anguish of mind. 

“ I have entreated your father, dearest Catharine, to tell me 
what passed on that occasion, and I do not think you have any 
reason to suppose Mr. Dunallan wished for delay on any ac- 
count, but your apparent indifference to him.” 

“ Did my father tell you what passed ? Do not, for heaven’s 
sake, conceal it from me, .Elizabeth : truth cannot be worse than 
my fears.” 

“ Lord Dunallan told me that the only idea which .seemed 
to distress Dunallan was your marked indifference, he even 
thought dislike to him, which led him to fear your being led by 
motives of obedience to your fiuher, to take vows which your 
heart could not ratify. In short, my dear Catharine, some 
religious scruples which he felt for you only : and this con- 
vinced me that the state of his own feelings enables him to 
take them without scruple : for with his strict notions he would 
not have considered himself innocent in so doing had he felt 
otherwise,” 


52 


dunallan; or, 


“ And would he have been innocent, Elizabeth ? or shall I be 
innocent ? ” 

“ Ah ! Catharine, you must not now think of this. It is too 
late : besides, you fulfil a first duty in obeying your father.” 

Catharine was not convinced, but felt that it was, as Eliza- 
beth said, too late to plead such an excuse. Yet, like her 
friend, she could not help concluding that Dunallan would not 
be willing, probably, to take these solemn vows were he averse 
to fulfilling them. Yet he had asked delay. She determined, 
if possible, to avoid thinking, and to attempt to appear less un- 
happy, let Dunallan suppose what he would. She wished to 
leave her father, under the impression that she was reconciled 
to his wishes. For the few following days her countenance 
wore an expression of submission, and calm elevation of mind, 
inspired by the consciousness of sacrificing her own feelings to 
those of her father : while the paleness of her looks, and her 
touching gentleness to all around her, gave her the appearance 
of one who had lost all hope for herself, and only sought to be- 
stow on others what was for her gone for ever. When address- 
ing her father, she even attempted to be cheerful. To Dun- 
allan she was respectful and attentive, as if she already had 
taken the vow of subjection. Yet she deceived no one. When 
she met Dunallan’s eyes, which she carefully avoided, but which 
seemed for ever fixed on her, she saw in them an expression of 
pity and concern she could not mistake. Her father, too, in 
vain tried to affect a gaiety, which only served to render his 
next moments of absence, and evidently painful thought, more 
striking. 


CHAPTER V. 

At last the dreaded morning arrived. Elizabeth went to her 
friend at an early hour : she found her dressed, and seated at a 
table, which was covered with letters and papers. ' 

“ What is all this, my Catharine ? Remember, my dear 
friend, the fatigues of this day.” 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


53 


“ I do remember, my Elizabeth. I am only performing a 
necessary duty. It ought not to have been so long neglected ; 
but never till last night did it so forcibly strike me that I might 
not again see Dunallan Castle : I had quite forgot to settle some 
things. But I have done,” added she, putting up her paper 
with a composure that astonished Elizabeth; then turning to 
her friend, a faint smile on her languid countenance. 

How do you like my bridal attire, Elizabeth ? ” 

Elizabeth looked at her for a moment, then turned away to 
conceal her tears. 

“ Dear Catharine, do not look so patient, so resigned, yet so 
unhappy. You will leave us all quite miserable.” 

“I look as I feel, Elizabeth. I am resigned. I have now 
arranged all I wish to be done, should I never again return 
liere, and I care not what happens. I am prepared for every 
thing, but (her voice changed) parting from you ; (then feeling 
herself overcome,) I must not .think of this — we shall soon 
again meet. I shall write, — No, dear Elizabeth, do not em- 
brace me ; do nothing to soften me. I have almost wished these 
few days for Mrs. St. Clair, instead of that gentle Mrs. Clanmar, 
who looks so sweetly anxious to comfort me, and to gain my con- 
fidence ; and my dear kind Rose, and even you, Elizabeth. I 
entreat you do not all gaze on me with looks of such touching 
interest. Even Mr. Dunallan ; but I must not think of him ; 
had he felt pity for me sooner ; but it is now too late. Oh that 
the next hour were over ! Mlien will it be time for breakfast ? 
You know we Avere to set off very early. When I am gone, 

Elizabeth, will you assure my father .” Her voice failed, 

and she turned away and walked to an open window. The morn- 
ing was calm and beautiful, and the freshness of the air revived 
her. She sat down, but rose again almost immediately, a blush 
crimsoning her before pale cheek. 

“ Mr. Dunallan,” said she, retiring hastily from the window, 
“returning as usual from his morning walk, I suppose, quite 
composed ; and he has seen that I am ready,” added she, bitterly, 
and looking atdier dress. “ He bowed, too, to show he did per- 
haps. Well, a short time will undeceive him now. I shall 

5 * 


54 


DUNALLAN ; OR, 


soon have no secrets from him ; no attempts to conceal my real 
feelings : he shall know that I have a heart that can be given 
only by myself; and calm, and proud, and immovably right 
as he always is, he shall not despise me.” 

“ Despise you, Catharine ! he does not ; he never did ; I am 
satisfied he, I could almost say, loves you.” 

A gentle tap at the door of the apartment interrupted Eliza- 
beth. Catharine became quite pale. It was Lord Dunallan. 

“ My Catharine, my dear love, we wait for you.” 

Catharine attempted to regain her composure, but without 
success. She leant on her father, but stopped on the stairs to 
breathe, her heart beat so violently that she became quite faint. 

“ My dear uncle,” ' said Elizabeth, “ let Catharine and me 
remain together till after breakfast. It is too much for her to see 
all our assembled friends before this trying ceremony.” Lord 
Dunallan agreed to this proposal; and Catharine returned to 
her room with Elizabeth, who endeavored to induce her to take 
some refreshment. She tried, but in vain. She was sick at 
heart. 

“ I cannot go through this ceremony, Elizabeth.” 

“ Dear Catharine, recollect yourself. It is not possible now 
to retract.” 

“ Leave me, dear Elizabeth. I regain composure most easily 
when alone. Take this last kiss, my Elizabeth ; after I am 
again calm, do not bestow one kind word or look upon me, or 
I shall be unable for this dreadful exhibition — these fearful 
untrue vows ! ” 

Elizabeth would not consent to leave her friend. She saw 
that the kind of composure she acquired when left alone, was 
only the result of an attempt to feel indifferent to every thing, 
and that the first trifle which awakened her feelings destroyed 
her composure. Elizabeth partly succeeded in calming her agi- 
tation, by representing things as they really were. 

“I am ready, my dear Elizabeth,” said Catharine at last, 
“ my true, my best friend ! ” 

Lord Dunallan entered, and Catharine became as pale as ever. 
She took his arm, however, and hastened forward, as if afrkid 
of again being obliged to return. 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


. 55 


Lord Dunallaii opened the door of the apartment in which 
the party were assembled. Catharine shrunk back for a mo- 
ment, then suffered her father to lead her forward. In an instant 
Dunallan was at her side, and the voice of the old and venera- 
ble clergyman of Dunallan church was raised to heaven in 
prayer. Catharine, pale as marble, and almost as still, leant on 
her father, and seemed to listen, but did not hear. Dunallan 
audibly assented to the few simple but solemn vows he was# 
required to make. Catharine’s assent was supposed. Elizabeth 
drew her white glove from a hand almost as white and lifeless. 
Dunallan took it in his, and she was restored to some degree of 
consciousness by feeling that his trembled. He held her hand 
firmly, however, till the short ceremony was over, then touch- 
ing it with his lips, resigned it to her father. 

Lord Dunallan would have pressed Catharine to his heart, 
but she hurried from him, and from every one. Elizabeth fol- 
lowed her, but she waved her hand for her to leave her. Her 
father appeared : “ Your journey is long, my love ; my Cath- 
arine, I must hurry you fi»m me. Mr. Dunallan is anx- 
ious ” 

Catharine started up ; “I am ready.” 

“ God for ever bless my dearest child.” 

“ Oh my dearest father ! ” 

He pressed her for an instant to his heart, then led her 
away. Dunallan was waiting. The hall was full of ser- 
vants, anxious to have a last look of their beloved-young 
mistress. 

Catharine shrunk back. 

“ I shall say adieu for you,” exclaimed Elizabeth ; “ Adieu, 
adieu, every one,” cried she with forced gaiety, while Lord 
Dunallan supported Catharine into the carriage. 

Dunallan followed; and Catharine’s heart sunk within her, 
when its door was closed on her, and this most dreaded, but now 
nearest of all human relations. She threw herself back and 
almost fainted. 

Dunallan would have stopped the carriage, but Catharine mo- 
tioned with her hand to prevent him. She dreaded her father 
seeing her agitation. 


56 . 


DUNALLAN; OR, 


Dunallan watched her changing countenance with the deep- 
est concern. Catharine felt annoyed, conscious that his looks 
'were bent on her, though she did' not raise her eyes, and 
struggled to ^ regain composure. She attempted to let down 
the glass next to her : Dunallan leant past to assist, but his hand 
trembled almost as much as her own, and she was struck with 
surprise at the expression of distress and agitation which his 
•countenance now betrayed ; she even thought his eyes glistened 
as he turned his faee from her. The calm, grave expression 
with which her imagination always pictured him was now wholly 
gone. She forgot her own feelings in thinking of his, and con- 
tinuing in deep and painful thought for a few moments, the tu- 
mult within in part subsided. How selfish have I been, thought 
she ; I forgot that he could feel, and that he has equal, perhaps 
greater cause of distress than myself. 

“ The air, I hope, revives you,” asked Dunallan, in a^ mild 
and soothing tone of voice. 

She attempted to reply, but burst into tears ; and long re- 
pressed, they now flowed beyond "till ])ower of restraint. She 
covered her face, and turning away from Dunallan, wept and 
sobbed aloud. Dunallan did not speak, but she heard him sigh 
frequently and deeply. He at last, in the gentlest tone of voice, 
entreated her to be composed. 

“ Endeavor, Catharine, to forget the last few hours : only re- 
member that you have now another friend, who has^ vowed in 
the si^it of heaven to watch over your happiness. You shall 
yourself determine in what that happiness shall consist. ■ I have 
seen too plainly your repugnance to the interested connection 
which yoUr generous sense of duty has induced you to form. I 
have tried every means in my power, Catharine, to set you free, 
but all have failed ; and I have been most reluctantly forced to 
tear you from home, and deprive you of the power of choosing 
your nearest friend and protector. * All that I can at this mo- 
ment hope is that it may be in my power to render you at least, 
not unhappy.” •' 

Catharine became gradually calm as Dunallan spoke. His 
Voice and manner were so soothingly earnest and kind, that she 
felt touched. 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


57 


“ Let us, Catharine,” continued he, “ now attempt to look at 
things as they really are. There is no peace or calm to the 
mind but in truth.” 

“Truth!” repeated Catharine, in a tone of voice, and with 
an expression of the most mournful despondency. ‘ 

“ Yes, dear Catharine, truth even at this moment ; and first, 
can you not feel me worthy of forgiveness in persevering in the 
fulfilment of the same promise to a dead father, that with every 
feeling of dislike and repugnance on > your part, you have yet 
considered it a sacred duty to fulfil to a living one ? ” Catha- 
rine was struck : this simple question of Dunallan’s seemed in- 
deed to bring a volume of truth into her mind ; but her thoughts 
were confused, and she remained silent. Dunallan, however, 
seemed to wait for her reply. 

“Mr. Dunallan,” said she at last, sick at heart while she 
spoke, “ I cannot feel that truth brings to me either calmness or 
peace. I would rather attempt to forget every thing, but that I 
have; to please my father, entered a situation in which it be- 
comes my duty to try to be satisfied with your conduct on all 
occasions. I wish to fulfil this duty ; if I fail, you will perhaps 
feel indulgence for me when you recollect .” 

Catharine’s voice failed, and she could say no more. 

Dunallan turned away, -and Catharine looked up, half con- 
scious that she had 'answered his true and simple appeal with 
an ungenerous evasion. She was surprised and overcome on 
seeing' that the cold, dreaded Dunallan was moved even to 
tears. ' 

“Catharine!” exclaimed he, after making several efforts to 
speak with composure, “How shall I — how can I convince 
you that I am not the unfeeling, selfish, interested, cruel being, 
I see you suppose me ? You have scarcely ever permitted me to 
speak to you. Of late you have not even deigned to look at 
me. You have defeated every attempt on my part to explain 
myself — to attempt to assist you to be free. You have taken 
no notice of my letters ; your father has been equally — shall I 
say, unjust, to me ? ” 

“ Letters ! Mr. Dunallan,” interrupted Catharine. “ I re- 
ceived no letters from you,” 


58 


dunallan; or, 


Dunallan looked surprised. “ I thrice wrote to you, Caiha- 
rine, when you denied me every means of imparting to you 
what I thought might perhaps have put it in your power to 
avoid a .connection which I saw was so hateful to you.” 

“ I never received any letter from you, Mr. Dunallan,” re- 
peated Catharine, solemnly. 

“ Extraordinary ! ” exclaimed Dunallan, “I sent for your own 
woman, Catharine ; her name, I think, is Martin, and myself 
gave all my letters into her hand.” . ' 

Catharine now, on her, part, looked much surprised. “ You 
gave your letters to Martin ! Mr. Dunallan.” . 

“ I did ; all of them.”_ 

Catharine became very thoughtful. Could any one — could 
St. Clair have- intercepted Dunallan’s letters ? Impossible ! 
She could not for a moment suspect Martin, to whom they had 
been intrusted, of the smallest unfaithfulness. “ Most extraor- 
dinary ! ”■ said she, thoughtfully. 

“ Is Martin among our present attendants, Catharine ? ” asked 
Dunallan. 

“ She is.” ' ‘ . • 

“ May I then ask for an explanation from her ? ” 

“ Certainly.” 

Dunallan stopped the carriage, and desired a servant to 
request Martin, who was in another just behind, to come for a 
moment to the window. She soon appeared, and the other 
servants retired. Martin looked alarmed. She stood at the side 
of the carriage at which Catharine sat. 

“ Do not be alarmed,” said Dunallan gently, and leaning past 
Catharine a little to speak to her : “ Do you recollect, Martin, 
my giving you three letters at different times to deliver to your 
lady?” 

“ I do, sir, perfectly. It was only last night you gave me 
one, and two before that, about, I think ” 

“ And what became of those letters, Martin ? ” asked Catha- 
rine, interrupting her, and now leaning forward with looks of 
surprise and displeasure. 

Martin appeared astonished at the question. 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


59 


“ Speak the truth, Martin,” said Catharine, her eyes tilling 
with tears as she added, “ Can you, Martin, be unfaithful to 
me?” 

“ My dear, dear young lady, no ; not for all the world could 
offer,” exclaimed Martin, tears gushing into her eyes as she 
spoke ; “ I thought I was only giving the letters to Lord Dun- 
allan, as he commanded me, that he might himself deliver them 
to you.” ■ 

Catharine sunk back : “ You gave the letters to my father,” 
said she, faintly. 

“ Yes, Madam : just the very day on which Mr. Dunallan 
trusted me with his first letter, my Lord had commanded me 
to bring any letter for my young lady to him, and he would 
himself take charge of it.” 

Dunallan looked for a moment at Catharine ; her eyes were 
raised timidly to him. 

“ That is enough,” said he, in the gentlest tone of voice, to 
poor Martin, who stood in apparent consternation. “ You 
have done nothing wrong, Martin: we may now proceed.” 
He waited till she had retired, then ordered the servants to 
drive on ; and turning to Catharine — 

“ I now feel how much cause you have to regard me as 
you do, Catharine. You have considered me as calmly 
persevering in completing your wretchedness, without an 
effort to make escape possible. I am not surprised that 
you could not bring yourself to say I deserved forgive- 
ness.” 

“ Forgiveness ! Mr. Dunallan,” repeated Catharine, “ I now 
see too plainly who it is that has most — that has all to 
forgive. I can scarcely, however, hope that you can pardon 

tiiis last ,” she hesitated: “Yet if you could suspend 

forming your judgment on this, to me, unaccountable pro- 
ceeding of my father’s, I feel certain he will be able to con- 
vince you that his motives were perfectly honorable.” Catha- 
rine again burst into tears, overpowered and mortified beyond 
expression. 

“I am convinced, my dearest Catharine, that, according to 


60 


dunallan; Or, 


Lord Dunallan’s views, they were perfectly so,” replied Dun- 
allan. “I have had many conversations with him. I hoped 
to have induced him at last to have given me time to overcome 
the prejudices with which you met me : but he seemed to feel 
that his engagement to my father made every moment of 
delay which he could prevent a breach of honor on his part. 
And you know, Catharine, that, independent of all this, a 
father is fully entitled to be acquainted with the contents of 
any letter addressed to his child while she remains under his 
protection. I shall now only say that my object in writing 
these letters was, to make you aware that , my promise to my 
father was entirely conditional, and was to be considered 
cancelled if you were averse to its completion. I hoped that 
the knowledge of this might have put it in your power to be 
free.*’ •' ’ 

Catharine shook her head. - 

“ Your father assured me that you did not desire to be free ; 
but your every look contradicted the assertion.” 

“ My promise was never conditional,” said Catharine ; “ that 
could have made no change on my part.” 

“ It might, however, on the part I should have taken, Cath- 
arine. But that is past.”* 

Catharine at once saw his meaning. “ Yes ; that is' past ! ” 
repeated she, emphatically. “ Now I see too plainly how un- 
justly, how childishly, how madly I have acted ! Mr. Dun- 
allan, I will now say I have perceived your opinion of me. ' I 
have resented it; but you have not been unjust; I have de- 
served it, I can scarcely hope ever to obtain your forgiveness, 
but ;” 

“ Dearest Catharine, do not talk thus,” interrupted Dunallan, 
let us exchange forgiveness for the past. Neither has been 
quite free from blame with regard to the other ; but far, far the 
greatest share belongs to me. When I last renewed* my pro- 
mise to my father, I ought to have been more firm to my own 
sense of right — to my own principles.” • 

“In our promises, Mr. Dunallan,” said Catharine, mourn- 
fully, “ I must feel that we have been more ‘ sinned against than 
sinning ; ’ but I wish not to remember this.” 


KNOW AVHAT YOU JUDGE. 


G1 


“ No, dearest Catharine, it is not our part to remember it. 
Let us only remember our own share in what is past ; and 
where we have erred, let us begin to attempt averting those 
painful consequences which are always attendant on error.” 

“ If that were possible,” said Catharine, still mournfully. 

“ It may be possible, dearest Catharine. Allow me to at- 
tempt to prove this to you.” Dunallan now spoke in a cheer- 
ful tone of voice. “We have brought the past in some mea- 
sure into the light of reality and truth ; may I venture to go 
for a moment into the future. * You know that in a few weeks 
I must leave Arnmore. I fear that during those few weeks, 
your father will not be satisfied unless you remain there also ; 
but you shall, my dearest Catharine, be as free at Arnmore as 
.you were at Dunallan Castle. Your cousin Elizabeth has 
promised to come to you. I earnestly wished she could have 
accompanied us now ; but to this Lord Dunallan objected. My 
aunt leaves Arnmore immediately, unless you should wish her 
to be your guest until your cousin joins you. Miss Lennox or 
any friend of yours, will, I am sure, find pleasure in making 
the solitude of Arnmore less tedious to you. In short, my dear 
Catharine, my part in attempting to do away the painful con- 
sequences of my errors regarding you, shall first be to anti- 
cipate your every wish as far as it is in my power. Only let 
me know your wishes. I now consider your happiness as my 
first earthly care. As to myself, Catharine,” — Dunallan be- 
came embarrassed ; but recovering himself, “ I do not know in 
what character to ask you to consider me. To that which the 
ceremony of the last hour seemed to entitle me I shall never 
lay claim, while you feel for me as you do at present. Noth- 
ing on earth, Catharine,” added he, earnestly, “could induce 
me to remind you of that claim, while you so evidently detest it. 
You have just said, that you have perceived what opinion I 
have formed of you, and have resented it. Your adding this 
proves to me that you have been mistaken. I shall say no 
more now. I know how little any profession of regard from 
one, for whom you feel as you do for me, can be agreeable to 
you. Yet, may I ask you to attempt tq forget many things 

6 


G2 


DUNALLAN; Oil, 


which I know you have heard against me ; to judge of me for 
yourself, as one of whose character, from circumstances now 
unavoidable, you would wish to be such as you could esteem.” 

“ I should certainly wish most earnestly to do so, Mr. Dun- 
allan,” replied Catharine. 

“ Let it be so, then, Catharine. Attempt to consider me as 
one, who is really still almost a stranger to you, but who most 
earnestly desires to obtain a jdace in your esteem. Is this 
settled, Catharine ? ” 

“Yes,” replied Catharine ; “ If you too, Mr. Dunallan, would 
attem})t the same with regard to me ” — she spoke with embar- 
rassment, and blushed as she spoke ; but the tone of her voice 
had resumed something of its usual animation ; and Dunallan’s 
joyful assent to her wish, as far as it was possible, settled the 
arrangement for the few following weeks. “If at the end of 
those weeks of my probation,” said Dunallan, “ you can feel for 
me differently ; but I shall say no more now.” 

From that moment Dunallan’s manner became frank and un- 
embarrassed, and he began to converse on subjects just suffi- 
ciently connected with their present situation to render them 
deeply interesting. He at last spoke of Arnmore, and men- 
tioned his aunt. Catharine made some inquiries respecting this 
new relation, and was soon in tears while listening to a few par- 
ticulars of her melancholy story, and to Dunalhm’s description 
of her resignation, her restored cheerfulness, her active life. 

“ She shall herself tell you the source of her cheerfulness 
and strength of mind, Catharine,” said Dunallan ; and then 
passing to other subjects, his unrestrained, but gentle and 
respectful manner gradually led Catharine to converse and feel 
at ease with him, and almost to forget that he was the same 
dreaded Dunallan, whose i)resence had so long been a restraint to 
her, and his idea her constant misery. She soon conversed 
freely with him, looked wiili interest for his answer, or for the 
impression made on him by the sentiments and opinions she was 
led to express, and which his countenance instantly betrayed. 
He still differed frequently from her, both in feeling and in 
opinion ; but a mild indulgence, and an anxious desire to explain 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


63 


his reasons for differing, joined to a great apparent pleasure 
Avhen he had won her to his way of thinking, made even differ- 
ence of opinion agreeable. n 

“ You are leading me on to tell you my inmost thoughts, that 
you may condemn them,” said she to him, after having expressed 
an opinion from which she saw he differed. 

“Not to condemn, dearest Catharine. I only wish our opin- 
ions were the same on every subject.'” • •; j 

“ I wish so too,” replied she, smiling, “ I know who would' be 
the gainer. However, I can bear to differ from you now : at 
Dunallan Castle I could not.” 

“ Because at Dunallan Castle, when you differed from me, all 
your friends did so also, particularly Mr. St. Clair, who always 
made your argument his own. Had he really dissented be- 
cause his opinions were different, I ought either to have tried to 
convince him, or to be convinced by him ; but as he merely 
wished to make a merit with you by differing from me, and 
would have done the>same had you argued on the opposite side, 
I thought it best to be silent, though I saw the unfavorable im- 
pression my silence made on you ; but I dreaded losing my 
temper also, and then a quarrel must have been the consequence; 
and you, Catharine, do not perhaps know how important it is 
for a man, professing the principles I do, to guard against being 
brought by his own loss of temper, into a situation from which 
those principles forbid his extricating himself in the usual way. 
I sometimes, too, felt for Mr. St. Clair. You know, Catharine, 
he deserved pity ; yet I-think he ought to have pitied me also ; 
for surely seeing, as he must have done, how repugnant to your 
feelings my presence was, he would not have changed situations 
with me.” 

“ Thank heaven,” said Catharine, emphatically, “ that Mr. 
St. Clair was not in your situation ! ” 

Dunallan’s smile of pleasure brought a blush to Catharine’s 
cheek but he turned away, and soon again spoke as if he had 
not perceived it. 

The travellers stopped during the hottest part of the day at 
the beautiful village of B . Catharine had remarked Dun- 


64 


dunallan; or, 


allan’s uncommon powers of conversation even at Dunallan 
Castle, where he had been checked and restrained by the cold 
looks and manners of most of the party. This day she had 
felt those powers in their full force. She scarcely observed 
how time passed. An hour after she had been with him, she 
had forgot the peculiarity of their situation, which seldom again 
returned to her recollection, excepting when a change of horses, 
or other incidents, interrupted conversation, and drew her at- 
tention from the last interesting sentence he had uttered. When 

however she learnt, on leaving the village of B , that they 

were within a few miles of Arnmore, her thoughts became too 
powerfully oppressive for even Dunallan’s conversation to sus- 
pend or overcome. It was evening ; a calm gray evening after 
a day of bright sunshine. A soft mist rose from the fields, and 
enveloped the lower part of the woods, and slowly ascended 
the hills. • 

Catharine had answered Dunallan several times without 
scarcely having heard what he said. She thought of her ap- 
proaching interview with his aunt ; of being received as the 
wife of Dunallan ; of him, also, though she heard not what he 
said ; of his consideration for her ; of his delicacy and kind- 
ness. ‘‘ I may trust him,” thought she, but how will this aunt 
receive me ? Can she know our feelings for each other ? ” She 
sighed deeply. At last Dunallan addressed her in a tone so 
very serious, yet so mild, that it immediately arrested her 
attention. 

“ I ought, I believe, my dear Catharine, to prepare you for 
some singularities which you will meet at Arnmore. You know 
my opinions on some subjects are very different from those you 
have been accustomed to consider just and rational. At Arn- 
more you will find those opinions influence all around you, and 
this at first may be irksome, or even may disgust you ; but let 
me entreat you not to form your opinions until you have ex- 
amined for yourself. Do not let prejudice mislead you. I 
once thought as you now do, Catharine : may heaven avert from 
you the painful means by which my eyes were opened.” 

Catharine listened with fixed attention. 


KNOW "WXIAT , YOU JUDGE. 


Go 


‘‘I will iHot isay iMorc iiGW) Catharine ; I only ask that in on^* 
you will oblige nie. I do not j>i'es<;ribe to you, however, 
remember, dearest Catharine.'” : i. ^ . , , 

“ AVhatever* you ask,”, i interrupted she, “ I am ready to com- 

idywith.” ivw.- ■ ..:i .p, V/. r;.,„d 

i»“ All I wish is, that youwill submit to some" nevy forms you 
will lind in our mode of living! atiArnmore — at least until ,’3011 
are eonviiiecd they are wrong.” , . . : , .,[) 


'• Is tills > all,” said Catharine:. “But may I as.k jWhat are 
those opinions which I still entertain,! mid by the relinquishing 
ofn which you ' think youv eyes werei opened ?, What are 
tliCy?” . .1 , 

;i“iOno ispmy dear Catharine” v . ■ ... . 'r {>j,| 

An acclamation of ;joy interrupted Dunallan., It is Mr, 
Dunallan! They are coming ! .:)They are coming! Welcome! 
Welcome! God i bless 3^11,. sir,” echoed onfall sides, and, the 
carriage was instantly -surrounded by people, i-rrr-rr young,, old, 
women,ii children, I alb joined in. the shout of, joy and, welcome. 
Catharine shrunk bat-k:; Dunallan entreated ;heYi not to bo dis^ 
tnrbed, saying he Avould- >S stop , those congratiilatiotis, so. unsea- 
sonable,” added he.- : s ii ))(.■!; .1,' iw ii'- ii. 1 . 

An old man now a})proached, his blue bonnet iii hisihanth and 
his gray hails gently movedi from his thin temples by the wind. 
“ God • bless you, isir ! God:*bless your lady ! ” Then .looking 
with apparent delight at Catharine, “ May she, for 3^111’. saki(3, 
sir,' be as guid as she^isibonri}'- ! AVe haverfcomc to be -tlie -first 
to meet and wish! you jo3’’,’ sir.” Then .addressing Cnfln'inim, 
“There’s no ane aniang us but wad hae, been .w^nderet’S, in-a 
strange cbuntiy, and castiont frae four hames, if it had na.been 
for our young laird-j but he likes , grateful dieartS;, on, his. estate, 
rather than I new schemesi-tnlle’si the, only gentleman in li the 

country that” -i ,1 tiril il-.-i,!, ,, f. ,7 ,.,1 ,.f 

'“My gootl M’Ddnald,”/ Interrupted M Dunallan, “ we thank 
you; but have 300 forgot that- young, ladies do not. like- s^ucJi 
noisy welcomes. AVT* shall soon see you at your own hou,ses ; 
but let us pass quietly now, and tell my other friends; around you, 


C6 


! duxallan; ok, 


tliat I entreat tlieni also to reserve their •svelcomes till another 
time for tlieir yoiinijj lady.” ' *'■ i . ' - 

The old man now smiled ; “ I had- forgotten, sir, that one 
sac‘ Hear tb yon cohld feel aught but joy.”‘ DunalUm, color- 
ing, drew up the glass, and they passed on, though the people 
looked disa{)pointed at their well-meant eongratulatidnk being 
s’o ill received. ^‘When they luid- left thiS’ party at some distance, 
Dunallan sto})ped the carriage, and 'gave an order’ to a servant;, 
which Catharinb did not’ hear ; but the man galloped forward, 
and,' though 'they passed many cottagcis and farm ’houses, there 
AVCre lib more congratulations. Thc-'people, who ‘ stood in their 
doors, though in their Sunday clothes, and evidently prepared 
to bid them welcome, were satisfied Avith respectfully faking 
oh* their hats, Avhile the women curtsied, and motioned, to the 
children to be (jitiet; or still more anxious to i)lease, .some Avent 
into their houses A^dlile the carriage pas.sed, aiuhthen fblloAved 
it with a fervently uttered God bless him.” -n ■ ».i ■ > 

■'“And this is the man!” thought Catharine, “ Avho' dismi.ssed 
his father’s old domestics Avithout rCAvard,' and Avho, I under- 
stood •'Avasthe- nio.st scA^ere of Tindlords 1 ” ' She looked jit him. 
He seemed alisorbed in thought, but not of an agreenble nature. 
He looked sad. ' ‘ i *-. i •* !i.< 

“ It - ’disti'esses me to have your pc^ople' ' cheeked in their 
demonstrations of joy,” said Catharine, in the softe.st tone of 
voice. " ' • ^ " ■ ' ' le-:' n ji - i fir - 

He started from his ' rc^’crie. “ Oh, 'it does not' signify ;■ they 
Avill' liaVe otlier opportunities. Their ' leelings ‘are not my 
piCfeent caiC^ dear Catharine. Iltliouglit of you, and am anx- 
ious to 'save you from their liearfelt 'but noi.-^y and perhapsi rude 
expression.^ of joy iit an eVent Avhicli has only caused* you pain ! 
yet I .dioiild Avisli you' to feel *aii inter e.<.t in the happiness of 
beings Avho Avill now be so much influenced by you 5 lor the 
people on this estate aVe^so devotedly attached to its proprietors, 
that they AAull do any thing they think pleasing to those ibidoved 
by them.” ‘i* ^ 1 ' 

'• “ Does "this" attachment go along Avith the estate ? ” asked 
Catharine, .smiling. 


C7 


KNOAV, AVIIAT YOU JUDGK. 

“ Certainly,” replied Dunallan, and smiled also. 

They had been for some time driving slowly up a steep 
ascent, and saw nothing on either, side but the darkly .shaded 
trunks of the straight firs which skirted the woods near the 
i‘oad. When they had i^eached the highest part of the ascent, 
the mist had cleared away, ai>d a bright setting, sun glowed 
on the beautiful scenery of Arnrnore, whieh now lay before 
them. It seemed as if nature had formed an immense amphi- 
theatre of mountains to . shelt(n’ all that was s,oft and picturesque 
within their bosoni. Idie Castle stood on a rocky promontory 
raised bohlly from the lake which washed its base, and now 
refiecting the lengthened rays of the departing sun appeared 
“ashe(itof gold,” with woods hanging in luxuriance upon its 
Steel) broken Thore.s. The descent into this jiaradise was 
rapid. Catharine had scarcely time to recover from her 
surprise and delight when they entered the noble avenue which 
led to the castle. Dunallan turned to her. “ Let me now wel- 
come you, Catharine, to your new abode, and again declare 
before Him who is present everywhere, that you have only 
to tell me what you wish, and it shall be my first care 
to endeavor to gratify you.” Catharine hesitated, — “ jNIy 
first wish is to know what you consider right — to live* a useful 
life.” ' * 

“jDear Catharine,! then you cannot live unhappily; with 
such resolutions, no situation can make you so.” 

They drove on in silence. Dunallan seemed to, avoid looking 
at Catharine, and at a loss. lie pulled up the glas.ses and let 
them down again several times. Catharine’s heart beat vio- 
lently, yet her feelings were rallipr pleasurable. Often during 
her journey she had as>ked herself, “ Is tljis the day I so much 
dreaded?” and even now, though trembling and embarrassed, 
her heart felt light and. happy. 

“My aunt,” said Dunallan, with a look of pleasure, as they 
drove up to the door. 

A lady and two children stood on the. steps. The carriage 
door was open in an instant. Catharine trembled so violently, 
that Dunallan almost lifted her, out. 


DUNALLAX; OK, 


C)8 


“]\ry aunt, IMrs. Oswald, my dear Catharine.” 

Mrs. Oswald received and* pressed Catharine to her hosom 
with the tenderness of a mother. God bless you, and make 
ydu a’ blessing, my dearest niece.” ' 

’"‘She* then still more- joyfully embraced hO* nephew, and the 
children elung around him.' The servants seemed to join in 
the genenil joy, and looked* deliglited when, turning to them, 
he said he hoped 'all Vvere well and happy. He then otfenMl 
his arm' to' Catharine, and led her into an apartment that over- 
looked the lake, saying in a low voice while they advanced 
towards a window, “ You wiir have little more of this kind to 
undergo, dear Catharine.” He then 'turned to his aunt, and 
to the ehildren, who sprung 'into his arms, which he now 
opened to receive them. Catliarine lookeef at them clinging 
round his neck, and fondly leaning their little faces on his^ 
with an 'emotion that brought tears into her eyes. She 
remembered they v ere the children of that sister whom he 
was accused of having treated cruelly. She felt that it was 
impossible, and that Dunallan’s character must liave been 
traduced. A ^ . 

- IMrs. Oswald appeared to be between forty and fifty — still 
handsome, though dressed quite like an old woman — the ex- 
pression of her countenance very cheerful, and singularly 
pleasing from its lively openness.' She addressed Catharine 
with such a sweet and easy kindness, }Yt Avitlt so much of tlie 
dignity of an elder woman and a parent, that Catharine at once 
felt affection and’ respect for her. ) 

Hunallan brought the children to Catharine. I regard th'ej^e 
little girls as my children.' They are orphans^ or more than 
orphans,” added he, in a lower tone. “ Do you like' children, 
CiUlmvine?” ■ ' • ' ' ■' ' ■■ ■ 

“ Extremely,” replied she: and her manner to tliein diovved 
thitt she also knew how to win their little hearts. 

An hour after, the party were seated in the same window ; 
INIrs. Oswald and Catharine becoming every moment more inti- 
mate, and an (‘xpression of regard and admiration increasing in* 
the countenances of both, while Diifiallan listened to their cdu- 


KNOW AVI I AT YOU JUDGE. 


GO’ 

veusation in almo.^ silent pleasure. One of the little girls kept 
close to him, and- seemed never to tire of looking at him. Her 
loA-elj little fair head rested on his hreast, and formed a beautiful 
contrast Avith the* manly complexion and dark hair of Dimallan, 
who truly seemed to feel all a fatlier’s tenderness for her. The 
other child had been won by CWharine’s caresses’ to remain 
Avith her, and sat in her lap, her eyes fixed oo Oatharine’s face 
as she spoke, and now and then attracting her notice^by her 
little attem[)ts to ^^un in what ])assed. The children’s' maid at 
last appeared, to summon tliern to bed. They flew to Dunallan, 
to be again folded to his breast. “ Good-night. God bless my 
dear little girls,” said he, kissing them affectionately. 

“•Good-niglit, aunt - Oswald, good-night,” and approaching 
Catharine, what shall I call you ?” said the little thing' who 
had been in her lap. ■ • 

Catharine hesitated, and blushed. • • - 

“ Aunt Dunallan,” said Mrs. Oswald. ' 

“ Good-night, aunt Dunallan — my dear aunt Dunallan. Hut 
why are you my aunt ? ” hsked the childl v 

“ Go, go,” said Dunallan, quickly. > ■ 

' They flew away, but the eldest returned anddooked jn Dun- 
allan’s face. “Were you langry?” “No.” He whispered 
something in her ear ; she looked at Catharine, who held out 
her hand to her. The child approached and kissed the hand 
she offm-ed with a look as if. she thought her something very 
mysterious, and then Avent away. ’ ^ 

When,the children retired, Catharine' felt the smallness of the 
party a' restraint.*' i She turned to the AvindoAv. ' The lake still 
glowed with the reflection of the sky. Dunallan rose and stood 
l>y her. Mrs.’ OsAvald dreAV her chair closer, -and kindly taking' 
Catharine’s hand in hei-s, “ Let us have no reseryesymy dear 
Catharine,” said she ; no secrets. . I "know 'all about 'you — 
you probably- knoAV something about me, too- — enough, at least, 
to lead you to* believe that I have nothing to do:dn tliis Avorld 
noAv, but to prepare for another, and endeavor to promote the 
happiiK^s of those around me, asTar iis I may have tlie means 
of doing sa I knoAV Avith what reluctance you came to us — a 


70 


duxVALlan; oh, 


most natural reluctance. But try to forget all these unhappy 
circumstances, and to look upon us as relations, with whom you 
are still unacquainted. Try to banish all prejudice against us.” 

Catharine warmly returned the pressure of her hand, with 
which Mrs. Oswald concluded, “ I shall try to forget every 
thing,” replied she, with emotion, “ but your reception of a 
person who must unintentionally have occasioned you much 
pain. I, too, wish most anxiously for perfect openness. I 
acknowledge I did ^ome to you with reluctance ; and,” added 
slie, smiling sweetly, “ I believe my presence was not greatly 
desired. I entreat you will also forget all prejudices against 
me.” 

“ Oh,” said Mrs. Oswald, “ we know there have been attempts 
to sow discord, when every benevolent feeling ought to have led 
to the reverse.” 

A servant now entered, said something in an undertone of 
voice to Dunallan, and then retired. 

“ Catharine,” said Dunallan, with some embarrassment in his 
manner, “I have now to entreat you* to join us in one of the 
singular customs I prepared you to meet at Arnmore.” 

“ Certainly,” replied , she, accepting the arm he offered, 
though she began to tremble from apprehension of she knew not 
what. Mrs. Oswald leant on Dunallan’s other arm, and he led 
them into the library, where a number of servants were assem- 
bled. They stood respectfully until Dunallan placed Catharine 
and his aunt, one on each side, and then seated himself between 
them. A table stood before him, on which lay a large Bible, 
and some other books. He turned over the leaves of one, and 
Ayhen he had found the hymn he sought, presented it to Catha- 
rine, and then named it to the others. Dunallan himself began 
the song of praise, but he appeared embarrassed, and his voice 
at first was scarcely audible. Mrs. Oswald, however, the instant 
she caught the air, joined her full clear notes, with which the 
servants soon mingled theirs. Catharine could not join. She 
now found herself present at one of those very scenes which had, 
during Dunallan’s late visit at her father’s, been frequently 
chosen by St. Clair as the subject of his most pointed ridicule. 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


71 


and which he had described in terms so completely ludicrous, 
that Catharine had often joined in the laugh he excited. It was 
true she had many times during her evening walks at Dunallan 
Castle stopt to listen to the hymn of the cottagers, and St. Clair 
himself had partieipated in the ^fileasure excited by those strains 
of simple piety; but a gentleman, a man of education, knowing 
the habits -of the world, himself singing Psalms, acting parson 
before his family,' and domestics! IIow utterly ridiculous ! 
Catharine now remembered how often Dunallan had been pres- 
ent when such scenes had been the subject of 'ridicule, and ‘also 
how much the gravity of his looks, dr his defence of those who 
engaged in them,’diad increased St. Clait’s eagerness to hold 
them up to 'derision. It Avas impossible ‘Dunallan could have 
forgot all this, or the' part she liersClf had 'taken ; and she now 
felt ashamed, and ventured not to join, feeling that if she did, lie 
must regard her, during a servic’e esteemed sacred by him, as a 
mere hypocrite, — the character she had been tauglit tO associ- 
ate Avith the idea of those in her OA\m class. Avho made any such 
open paradej’she once AA^ould have called it,’ of religion. While 
Catharine sat occupied with these thouglits, her head bent fbr- 
Avard over her book of Hymns, and her color heightened by sO 
many recollections, hnd by the consciousness that she must be 
an object of attention to those around her, ‘Dunallan 'had re- 
gained his self-command, dhd his fine madly voice now bore its 
full share in the hymn. Catharine's feelings, hoAvever, remained 
contradictory and confused. The melody Avas SAveet and pleas- 
ing. Surely it must be right thus to join 'in AV'orshipping God, 
but still her early associations of ridicule returned, and she felt 
relieAa?d Avhen the liymn Avas concluded. Dunallan then began 
to read a portion of Scripture, in a voice' so deeply serious and 
impressive, that Catharine’s Avhole attention AvaS riveted to the 
subject. She Avas in the habit of reading the Scriptures at 
stated times, and admired and loA'cd particular passages ; but^ 
on the Avhole, the sacred volume appeared to her invoh^ed in 
an obscurity Avhich she thought if almost culpable to remark 
even to hdrself. She had imbibed this impression in her early 
childhood, from the veneration Avith Avhich her mother taught 


72 


DUNALLAN OR, 


her to regard the word of God, and which, was afterwards asso- 
ciated with the sacred idea of her departed parent. This gave 
her an uneasy and superstitious apprehension when she ven- 
tured to use her own powers of reasoning on any point she 
could not comprehend, or, reconcile to what in other cases ap- 
peared reasonable. She, had been,, shocked by hearing ^others 
speak slightingly on a subject which was connected in her fecl;- 
ing.s Avith all that was most sacred, r. She never, therefore, con- 
versed with her father, or with almost any one on the subject, 
beciiiise she seldom found any one’s feelings meet! hprs, Dun- 
allaii’s voice and manner, hoAvever, recalled her earlier impres- 
sions, and she listened with delight, mingled Avith awe, to the 
sublime ptissage he had chosen. When any i)artieularly ob- 
scure sentence occurred, Dunallan stopt, and in the most simple 
and correctly pure .language, gave either his oavii ide^is on the 
subject, or those of some approved commentator,. Avhich to liim 
appeared 'Conclusive, and which Catharine on each occasion felt 
perfectly satisfactory, . and Avorthy of the subject. She felt 
grieved Avhen he closed the sacred volume. All iioav knelt 
down to prayer; but here Catharine. Avas again less pleased. 
The (deep humility of Dunallan’s confessions, she could scarcely 
conceive to be sincere, and his exulting thanksgivings, for the 
mercies of Christianity! seemed unlike the simple trueness of his 
usual expressions. Yet as he proceeded he at times spoke . a 
language Avhich reached her inmost soul ; and Avhen he; con- 
cluded, she certainly felt her respect for him unaccountably in- 
creased. The servants, Avith im appearance of respect for tlieir 
young master! approaching to veneration, gratefully replied to 
those kind;and friendly inquiries. Avith Avliicle hoj noticed some of 
them tis they left the apartment. 

Mrs. Oswald held out her hand to Catharine : “ How do 
you like our strange Avays, my dear young friend?” asked she. 

Catharine Avm*mly i)ressed her hand, part of them very 
much” replied she. - i 

‘‘And what part do you dislike, my dear?” , ■ 

Dislike in a strong word. I Avill not say, my dear Mrs, 
Oswald, that I dislike any ij)art ; but -. — ” she he.dtated, and 


73 


KNOW WHAT 'you .TUI) OK, 


lookod- towarrlj^ l^nnallan. He had again opened the Bible, and 
stood iAvith his hand resting upon it,‘ while he seemed to listen 
for her reply to ‘Mrs. Oswald’s question.' “'May I ‘ask you to 
read, tliis passage, Catharine? said he*. She immediately 'ap- 
proaehed. i': - ’ i - i;- i- . .>f 

“ I felt it too saered,” f eontimied he, “when arguing, as. you 
liaye heard. me< do with- Miv St. Clair. His levity on these 
subjects was so unconquerable.” ’ * ’ ' i). . 

Catharine read the pas.sage to which he pointed. 'It was this: 
.“And! when they 'had sung a hymn, they went out into the 
Mount of Olives.’? * ><! ->* < ' • 

M.“ You' remember what precedes and follows this, Catharine'!” 
added Dunallan. -!: n- • ’■ u. : : . - i m. 

i“ I do,” said CatharinCj' instantly solemnized. • * ' ' 

n^fiTh’en/ I'arii sure! you will agree with me in thinking, that 
our feelings cannot be in the! state they' ought to be, if we have 
any disposition to ridicule an act' of devotion sanctioned by tliis 
example, or'if the dread of such ridicule should make us shrink 
from performing itv” • I ni »i!- ■ '' ■' 

“ Assuredly, Mr.; Dunallan,” replied Catharine, blushing even 
to. tears at the recollection of what she now considered her own 
impiety. ’ Dunallan immediately changed tlie ‘ 'subject ; but 
Catharine! when Tigain alone, revolved it deeply indier thoughts^ 
and felt humbled in 'her own opinioiij* while she“thought‘*how 
justly, yet how gently, Dunallan had conveyed' reproof. ' These 
thoughts, however, were not pleasing,' and she- hoped ‘that, on 
the morrow^' she would find means to gain a higher place’ in 
Dunallan’s esteem. > . i '■ ./ ■ bar . | r i - 


i . I si J 

CHAPTER VI. 


/•xit .Mii;'.. il i: . 

j .m:i m. ; 


h. 


(ti , >‘i‘; !; isis : 

1 .'t 

■I ibnw ■/■*!(; 

To-SroRROW morning' came', and, witli it, ^lartin rejoiced to 
have ah opportunity of opening her heart to her young iady. 

It i. M b;. - 1 ti " ' ' 

. i'i" * Matt. xxvi. 3(X '' 

7 I 


74 


DTTNALLAN ; OR, 


Oh, ma’am,” began • she, ' “ every one here is so kind ! jNIrs. 
Scott told me, that Mrs. Oswald said she would trust. to her to 
hndiout the way to make me happy and comfortable ; so JMrs. 
Scot^; just told me,- and begged me to say frankly, what would 
make me so on all occasions, for that Mrs. Oswald would be 
sadly displeased if they did not find means to make my nev\^ 
abode pleasant, to me. And, ma’am, Mrs. Scott says you put 
her in mind of Mr. Dunallan’s mother, whom she served long 
ago ; but she did not stay in the house after' her death, because 
the last housekeeper was not a person she liked to be under : 
so she went to Mrs. Oswald, who has been so kind to her, that 
she says? she owes more than this world’s liappiness to her ; but 
she says, too, ma’am, that if you look as gently at her as you 
did at me when you spoke to me, she could serve you on lier 
knees.” • Martin’s next theme Catharine listened to with more 
pleasure, for it was [all in praise of Ounallan, “ who,” she said, 
‘‘ seemed to be quite idolized by his servants;”., ii. 
i “There is not one of them,” proceeded she, “who would 
leave him to serve any gentleman in the country, iMrs. Scott 
,says ; and yet he is very strict, and suffers no servant to stay a 
night in the house after he has 'broken through- any rule he lias 
established; and this he desires, they may be 'positively warned 
of when they, are .hired. He has. turned; off four men within 
the 'last six months, although lie afterwards was* very kind to 
them till- they found other means of subsistence, and took pains 
liimself to convince them of the evil of their practices. When- 
ever a new servant enters the bouse, Mr. Dunallan converses 
with him in private, and gives him books to read; and he desiriis 
Mr. Cray, the steward, to take care that the men shall have 
time to read morning and evening, if they are so disposed ; 
and, at any rate, they must be in the house ; and they are, in 
general, anxious to read the books given them by Mr. Dunallan, 
as he often sends for them, and inquires whether they under- 
stand, and like what they have read, and takes much pains- to 
instruct them.' Mrs. Oswald takes the same care of the women; 
and IMrs. Scott asked me, ma’am,’ wliether I had been’ used with 
such care at Dunallan Castle. I said, that nobody could bo 


KNOAV WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


76 

kinder to their servants tlian you, ma’am, and that you always 
set them a good example ; ^uid IMrs. Scott said, that you indeed 
looked like an angel.” ' ' ‘ ’ / 

“Oil, Martin,” replied Cjltharine, “you have done me more 
than justice ; you see there’ may be better mistresses.” ’ ” 
Martin began to defend her young ‘lady. ' “No, ho, INIartin,” 
interrupted Catharine, “ do not trouble your head to recollect 
Jill my goodness, as you calk it. I hope Mrs. Oswald will 
teach me to be really a good mistress.’^’ 

“Oh, my dear young lady,” exclaimed Martin, her heart 
beginning to overflow at her eyes, '“I always said, 'you only 
needed to know what an angel was to become one yourself; 
for you have, ever since you' were a child; and spoiled by every 
one about you> always liked that person best who most freely 
told you what was right, Avhether they thought it likely to 
please you or not. ‘ Oh ! ma’am, I 'remember when 'Mr. Dun- 
allan was a very young gentleman, and you, ma’am, quite a 
child, you used sometimes to come aAvay from ' evcryljbdy to 
me, so unhappy and vexed ; and when I tried to amuse or com- 
fort you,' you used to tell me that Edward (as you called him 
then) had said you were passionate, or proud, or unkiiid to Miss 
Elizabeth ; and then you used to cry so, ma’am, and' say, ‘ Ed- 
ward thinks so, and it must be true. Do not say I am good, 
Martin, but tell me how I can learn not to be pjissibnate nor 
proud.’ Ah, ma’am ! you liked' Mr. Dunallan better than any- 
body then.” ‘ ■'* ' 

Catharine sighed, and looked so grave that Martin 'finished 
her duties without saying aiiothcr'Avord. When she was gone, 
Catharine sat down at a Avindow, her Avatch in her' hand, at 
once to be prepared for the hour of morning prayer,' and to 
vieAv the romantic scenery Avhich lay before her; but Avhile her 
eyes Avandefed OA^er its varied beauties, her thoughts Avere soon 
fixed on a subject too poAverfully interesting to be long forgot — 
her OAvn situation, and Dunallan’s singular character. Her feel- 
ings for him had very much changed since the preceding morn- 
ing. Still, however, she scarcely kncAV AAdiat she felt. “I haA'c 
been completely mistaken,” thought she, “in supposing him 


7G 


DUNALLAN ; OK, 


cold and scdfisli. rMrs. Oswald, and all around liim, regard him 
with as much love as respect. This could not be in:?pired, 
unless he discovered feelings of the same nature to them., llie 
chilch-en, too ” -r.she felt softeped when she recollected his caress- 
ing and fondly affectionate treatment of them. Amiable being ! 
thought she, how much he seems formed for domestic happi- 
ness ! And in this to be. compelled to give up his .own incli- 
nations, and abandon all hopes, of ever finding what he is so 
peculiarly fitted to enjoy; yet so just to me ! so feeling for. my 
situation ! so delicate ! so' considerate 1 his every look, .-every 
word, so- calculated to restore me to perfect tranquillity and con- 
fidence. / Yesterday, at this .time, I supposed him all sternness 
and pride ; this morning I could wish he were less gentle — less 
overcomingly delicate and considerate., The contrast is pain- 
ful.” The recollection of all she had* heard against his charac- 
ter returned to her thoughts. ‘AVhat,an inexplicable being ! ” 
thought she, “ yet why should I wish to know that all these un- 
favorable traits are false ? I almost believe >them to be so ; ' but 
Ido not wdsli to’ know that his manner f is really,, no more 
engaging than his heart is perfect. I do not wish to know that 
I have been so unjust to him — so unwise, to myself.!’ She 
thought of his singularities his prayers — Ids strict notions. 
“ What, must, he think of me, educated as I have been?]- He 
must feel that I am incapable' of entering into’ his ddetis^' or of 
being his friend and companion* , He seems to Teel Tor me. as a 
child whom he has been the unfortunate means of injuring, and 
whom jhe must therefore soothe and indulge, and lull me, if po.s- 
sible, into a forgetfulness of my,, real, situation. Oh ! , that I 
could convince him, . that proud, and thoughtless, and self->yilled, 
and I spoiled by prosperity as he thinks, I am, and as I too often 
feel myself, to be, thiit I, too,' aspire, after pei’fection.” A gentle 
(tap at the door startled her. She opened it. It was Mrs. Os- 
wald and the children. .■ li • • - >i t 7 i . !: ?, . 

“Quite ready!, that is' right, liiy love,” said that kind 
lady. , i m-m, : .1 , -I •: : 

The children threw their little arms , aro.und Catharine. 
.“ Sweet loves,” said she, pressing them with tenderness to her 
bosom. 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


77 


Mrs. Oswald syemud greatly pleased ; They will not 
be orphans, 1 see,” said she; “but eome,;::it;i is time for 
prayers.” j 

• rDunallan was alone when Hliey entered the libjraiy. ,, He 
received Catharine with a look ol pleasua’Q; but ;ho appeared 
grave, and immediately rung.foi- the servants. , i i 

turCathai'ine again sat by him ; and,, while she noWj joined her 
voice with his in their morning hymn of adoration, she felt as 
if she partook , in the pure devotion’ which seemed to inspire 
him'. Again die- redd, and again slie listened i with the most 
fixed' attention. He prayed ; .and i the earnest desires, iof his 
soul for higher I. degrees of purity in thought, in .motive, in ac- 
tion, in 'feelings, than she had ever conceived, led: her to feel 
the distance at which she still remained from' his ideas* of per- 
fection ; while his lowly confessions of time misspent, and his 
ardent supplications that all imightTeel the deep, importance of 
the short and fleeting, moments on which So much depended, 
cast a gloom over her spirits. ' <; .i; , . 

• If . What a degree of peifection you require/’ said" she to him 
when 'the servants* left the room. “ I should, despair, if I 
thought heaven required such-iihpossible strictness of thouglit 
and motive. Do you believe, Mr.: Dunallan, that we arc ca- 
pable of making our hearts so perfect ? ” I > 1 .. 

.-i He looked mildly at her for a moment, then said, in a 
serious tone, “I do- not think that we are Capable, to command 
a single good thought. Scripture says so, and my own expe- 
rience, confirms the declarations of Scripture .to my own mind. 
But,” added he, “ you- seem' half displeased .with me, Gatha-. 
rine^”- *■ . - M • Si ” 

t< “ I only do not conq^rehend you,” replied shcl My> dear 
Mrs. Oswald, I aj)peal to you, lias he not contradicted himSClf.^ 
He •fii'st describes i a degree of perfection, which, if necessary, 
is quite alanning do such erring creatures ; and then says, to 
prevent all attempt even, that we. ai^e incapable of thinking a 
good thought.” '<1 ' . >,l I.. ■ t-; . 

And yet, my dear,”! replied Mrs. Oswald, “contradictory 
cOs tliis may appear, it is tlie fact ; for the Scriptures say that, 

7 * 


78 


DUNALLAN ; OR, 


‘ without holiness, we cannot see heaven ; ’ and also declare our 
inability to think a good thought.” ' • ’ i 

“ Oh ! do not puzzle me with such contradictions,” ex- 
claimed Catharine, earnestly, “I wish to know 'your opinions. 
]My heart tells me d have* regarded these ^'matters too slightly. 
1 find that those who attend most- to’ them always have 'most 
influence with me.'' Mr.'' Dunallail, I entreafyou ‘to ' explain 

yourselh”' ■ ‘ - ' *' ' ' • ' 

“My dear "Catharine/ I 'had no intention 'to trifle "with so 
important a -subjecti You forget* that * I was' not describing 
Avhat man may attain bydiis 'own exertions*; I was' imploring 
the assistance of Heaven' to produce in our souls dhat '^purity 
which true Christianity always leads us to sigh after,' however 
deficient we' may be.” ’ ' ' i n .1 , 

Catharine sighed, and looked urisatisfied. ' ' * r.* ; . t .! 

“ You are not quite convinced" that I anr right,' Catharine,^’ 
said Dunallan ; “but, you "know,' I prepared you to ' meet 
strange customs and strange opinionsiat'Ammorc; and I think 
you promised, at least you assented to inyAvishy not' to form 
your opinion of us till you had'-examined impartially our'reasoins 
for differing from many around iis.” ; " jf * ' ' 1 > 

“Oh, certainly '*1 shall not,” .replied .Catharine. had 

forgot that I was to act {is an impartial judge. ,iFrom wluit I 
have {dready seen, however, I feel inclined to expect. perfection, 
{uul am dis{ippointed when I cannot understand wluit 1 see and 
he{ir.” ' " .M 

“Perfection!” exclaimed Dunallan'; “ iviis 'it not an 'aspira- 
tion after })erfection which displeased you ? ” * « ' .r ■ 

“ Oh, that kind of perfection ; yes, beciiuse it is quite differ- 
ent' from the kind i I mean, and is hir too -S{icred for. common 
life.” ■ "i'- ■'!! "'•» ■- . ' ,ii, ■ , I i !. ) ]f 

*I must not discuss this subject with" you now, Catharine;” 
replied Dunsdlan, taking her kind, and then* uNIrs.. .Oswald’s, 
{ind'drRwing e{ich' within his arm, ‘0)(‘C{uise I h;ive an engage- 
ment in luilf an hour, {ind we must go to bre;ikf;ist ; !but, may I- 
ask you to examine the sentiment you have just expressed, and 
tell me, when we meet again in this phice of strange customs 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


79 


and conversations, if* you think it — may I say,” he looked 
smilingly in her face, “ rational ? Catharine, you must not ,be 
displeased with me : you know I have always, been plain with 

i .1 r 

-U.“I am not displeased,” replied Catharine. “If I am irra- 
tional in my sentiments, it is not from intention and I only 
wait , to rbe convinced,’’ , , , 

“ Sweet girl,” said Mrs. Oswald ; “but come away, or this 
strange man must go to his aitpointment without any breakhist.” 
She hurried before them into the breakfast .room, and seated 
herself so as to leave, Catharine to preside. . 

Mr.s. Oswald, i this' is, your place,” said Catharine, when 
Dunallan led her! to the' vacant seat. . ; : /i. 

“No, indeed, my dove,” replied iMrs. Oswald, “I never take 
any trouble I can possUdy avoid.” And she looked up in Cath- 
arine’s face, .smiling with so, much archness, of expression, that 
Catharine seated herself immediately, to escape Dunallan’s looks, 
who stood hy her till the delicate point was settled. i Catharine 
felt her face glow, and her , .hand tremble as she (proceeded to 
do the duties. of her place. 

“ This is always a very sociable hour at Arnmore, my dear 
Catharine,” said INIrs.' Oswald, “ always a comfortable, old-fash- 
ioned i breakfast,- from wliich no one ever thinks of being absent. 
It , isj my delight,’.’ continued Mrs. Oswald, “to see every one 
assembled I first at prayers, and , then to easy and friendly conver- 
sation at breakfastjiwhen our, very hearts seem to feel as if the 
freshness of morning had risen upon them, as our sweet Mrs. 
Williams says/’ l.jii: .!ii< , , ' .. , 

Catharine again felt her face glow, on recollecting the conver- 
sation whicli liad passed at 'Dunallan Castle, and what Elizabeth 
had heard Dunallan say of her. “ Is Mrs. Williams a near 
neighbor ? ” asked she. A; < ? ri .! ■ 

“.Yes ; but we shall not .see her for a few days,” replied Mrs. 
Oswald.. -ii '• ■ ' i . • A • ■^■..11 t . ..I.f,,, ! 

!“I long much to be acquainted, with her,” said Catharine, 
looking at Dunallan, “.I shall then, i)erhap.s, learn what perfec- 
tion is.” ; ‘ ! ■ ■ ■ '1 • 


80 


DTTNALLAN; OH, 


No,” replied lie, smiling, ‘Mier own aecount of hei*self) at 
leiist, is very different.” n 

Diinallan was obliged to liuriy away immediately after break- 
fast. Mrs. Oswald then led Catharine through the house, and 
afterwards to the garden, and some of. the nearest of the beau- 
tiful walks which surrounded the eastle. Catharine greatly 
admired every thing she saw. In the house alCwas propriety, 
the most elegjuit simplicity and comfort. The servants seemed 
most carefully attended to; and • in their looks and manner 
/=howed the -respect and affection they felt for IVIrs. Oswald, and 
their anxiety to recommend themselves to the notice of their 
young lady^ The cottagers they met during their walk aj)peared 
e<|ually pleased and i*espeetful. Mi's.- Oswald addressed them 
kindly, and ^seeined- ac(piainted with all their concernsi/. “I 
must sliow you our village,” said she to Catharine as they were 
slowly returning towards the house. They then descended a 
wooden ])ath which »led' towards the lake; and after many 
windings, ‘ they arrived at a range of rocky cliffs, from which, in 
extensive and very picturesque grounds, on the borders of the 
lake, were seen many neat cottages,. separated from each other 
by the rocky unevenness of the groundy or by trees, or small and 
beautifully 'verdant fields, or by nicxdy cultivated little igardensi 
The mixture iof wood, and rocks, and cotteges, covered with 
honeysuckle and wild roses, with their irregular fields and gar- 
dens, soinetimes .suri'ounded witldwood, somqtimes ' enclosed by 
rocks of the most romantic wildness, sometimes encroaching on 
the steep sides of the hills which enclosed them all, formed a 
scene of singular beauty. Catharine contemi)lated all around 
her with delight; ^ ‘ i • » -i ) 

“That village 'contains upward of four hundred inhabitants,” 
said ]Mrs. Oswald, b‘ and their improvement is Dimallan’s 
favorite pursuit. The late IMr. Dunalbui, who never objected 
to ■ aniy plan proposed by his son, consented to his attempting 
this improvement, to induce his tenants to give up their dittle 
farms willingly. Punallan was quite as much .aware' {is 'his 
father, of the disadvantages of having i an estate divided into 
these small farms ; but he reprobated the plan followed by many 


KNOW WllATiYOU JUDGE, 


81 


couiKfy'gentlonK^n, of atf once throwing a nnmbor of tliem into 
one, and t^ulfering the miserable people to emigrate with’ their 
families to distant eonntries^i 'ille prevailed on hisvfather, there- 
fore^ to fsiitfer the. old tenants to remain, bht ihvited their sons 
to this village, where they receive’ a hnall piece of ground, a 
boatj andi fishing materials. The 'young jnen lare, by these 
means, enabled to many soon, and in a short time be'come so 
attached' to tliis village^ thatiat their father’s death they haVe no 
d<‘sirei>to retmai to itheiri farms, which’ fall without trouble into 
the handscofothe landlord.. Diinallan’s' phins hate; arrived at 
wonderful' iperfect ion, Considering;. ho^y short his visitstat home 
were duringdiis fatlieris life.”' •• • . nt: = . , - , h . 

• (“And .why, may I asky were:'hisMvisits so shorty my dear 
hfrs. Oswald ? ” said, Catharine;.) Surely such cold dif^regard 
of a father was not quite Consistent with 'Mr. jOunallan’s ' strict 
.. ])rinciples.”i ;> I,- =, ’ ! -i 

..t .^‘1 think his conduct was qiiite so, my dear,” replied Mts. 
Oswald, ‘*1 do not believe a 2 )arent’s shame can la^ witnessed by 
a childavdfclioutilessening.the'resj)ect he ought to feel.” ' < ) •' 

“ Shame! what do you mean, my dear madam?”-)i ; . n-. ..af * 

I “Is it .possible, Catharine, you do not know the cause fot 
Dunallan’s. averseness to home i c.^ •' 

“ I never heard any cause assigned.” •'i-. // ■!’ ! ‘ ; 

“ All,. my dear) .Dunallan has had . enemies’ near you. This 
could not be so great a secret, though my nephew has, I know, 
lioi’ne in silence much undeserved iblame. ^ Tou^ Catharine-, 
ought to know, however,. tliat* when diunallant resided at home, 
he was obliged to sec in his mother’s place one of the lowest 
and .worst of creatures, by whom hisi father was so infatuated 
a_ttd-. enslaved, that even his dove forliis son could not break the 
boudage.or_induce him, even wlieirihis son was with him, to 
offend tliis Iwoman, by 'keeping her from .appearing wdien there 
was noi other guest ; for this wastthe manner ini which she chose 
to show ilier .hatred to Dunallanj* .No .situation could be more 
intolerable .to a man of Dunallim’s principles and feelings.’! 

“And he didlas he ought in’ leaving /it,” said Catharine,' with, 
emphasis. “I was certain Mr. Dunallan must have been inno- 


82 


dunallan; or, 


cent of the. eliarges J have heai-d .against j him,” added she, 
thoughtfully. ff V. I n i-- 

Have! any inore ^uch stories reached you, my dejir?” ; 

“O yesj' but I shall tell you them all, my, dearest madam: 
for I long to hear} Mr. Dunallan cleared from every aspersion. 
Mr. Clanmar is said to have been led into an imi)roper. marriage 
by him.”. I i i . i!* ! .if- iu;: . . • ii* • 

. i .“. 1 1 know, he ds,” replied Mi-s. Oswald ; “ but here I cannot 
satisfy; • you. ‘ Dunallan is »as •seci-et . as i death on i this* subject ; 
from which *1^ who iknow himpinfer, thatiMr. Clanmar ihas been 
guilty of something - very blamable. h. I have . seen' them to- 
gether, and Clanmar certainly regards; Dunallan with more than 
common respect,; and i Dunallan profe.sse8 sincere affection for 
him;'hut thisds all I.caii'say on thisipoint.”i • . . .. 

And I Mim Dtmallan’si sister,” J said Cathari ne. * • . . i , . i ) ; i • * 

“ II is sister ! ” repeated Mrs. Oswald ; “ surely it is not ‘pos.si- 
ble to represent his conduct to her as any thing but kind, tender, 
geherous.-d -^^ — -nik ^ ..i-'.i i; i ■ . *:* I • .Ifii / 

“0 yes,”- interrupted Catherine, “it is i possible to make* it 

appear cruel — unfeeling ” . ■'*. ii , . i •i--' 

“What a^world!” exclaimed Mi\s. * Oswald. “ Let us .sit 
down here, my dear Catharine, for- I cjin walk no farther, and 
I shall tell you how cruel and unfeeling he was to her. Poor 
INLiria .was Dunallan’s sister by a fonner marriage, and soine 
years older than he. i My sister, the mother of Dunallan, . wished 
most earnestly to have the charge of? her, but her mother’s re- 
lations expressed tho! same wish, and her expectations from them 
being considerable, her father would not suffer her to 'be (taken 
fromethein. A few.( months after the deathi of my sister, i the 
relations! with whom; Maria lived, died also, leaving her a large 
fortune. ‘iMr. Dunallan entreated me to take charge of her, as 
there was no remaining i relation of her mother’si with whom* he 
chose to intrust her, and his house was not a }>roper place for a 
young-female, I [consented, but soon perciuved the- difficulty of 
tlie ta.sk 1 1 had undertaken,. -'(Beautiful,, gentle, ingenuous, and 
.warm in hefi’i affections, IMaria gained upon my heart, ‘while her 
want of st(‘adines.s, her sensibility, and neglected education, in 


KNO\V WIIAT YOU JUDGE. 


83 


what was of any real value, kept me in perpetual alaiW. Never 
vviis any creature more exposed to ’the dangers of vanity, from 
the extravagant admiration of the other s(.hx>; and, among all 
her suitors; she fixed oh the very one I should have least wished 
her to choose. ’ You have, 'l'dare say, heard of young Mr; Ilar- 
coiirt,! and of his unbounded extravagance. '' For > three -yeanj 
hetbre he left this country he was indebted to Diinallan ifor'the 
supply of every Avant, though by this means- Dumdlart’s own 
income became so 'limited tliaU he Wlis oblige^l to deny himself 
every indulgence. At oneftime he g^ave up Ms horses; atnah- 
other he dismissed all 'his Servants. ' Harcourf, with the meUri- 
ness usually attendant on extravagance;’ received imblushingl}', 
all tlrese pecuniary aids from a mere 'boy; as Dunallan then avus. 
At the end of those three yeai's, one causes of Hafcourt’s’ ex- 
travagance' became known, for the first time,' ho Dunallan.' ^' Ile 
found- that he Avas depriving him.^elf of every indulgence to 
supply the expenses of a mistress who had lived Avith ilarcourt 
for several years. ’ This naturally roused Dunallan’s indigna- 
tion, after having, Avith ditficulty, prycured’'a situation’ forTIar- 
court in India, he positively informed him, that unless he’ broke 
oft' the shameful connection he - had formed arid immediately 
consented to sail- for his new destination, he Avould no longer re- 
gard him as a relation. Ilarcourt knew hoAv dangerous it Avould 
be to his interests to displease Dunallan, and promised all' he 
Avisheda Before he sailed,' hoAvever, Dunallan discovered ’that 
the AvOmanihad gone a feAV Aveeks before in another ship, des- 
tined to the Presidency to Avhicli he had been appointed, and 
Avherc she had a sister married in a Ioav situation:' ’'On discoA"- 
ering this, Dunallan cjimc to nm almost' in despair. Maria’s 
healt h Avas' them in a* very delicate state; having Ijeen recently 
confined l)y the birth of our little Mary, and the idea of parting 
from her children, Avho Avere too young' to be taken to India, 
liad materially increased her illness. I Averit to her, and 'pro- 
posed her remaining Avith her children, and suffering "Ilarcourt 
to proceed to India AA’ithout her, I found little difficulty in per- 
suading her to do this; her affections were so divided betSvCen 
her husband and children. Ilarcourt, hoAvever, enraged at See- 


84 


DUN ALL an; or, 


iiig iill farther hopes of receiving pecuniary advantages iioni 
Punallan at an end, first insisted on his wife accompanying him, 
and when he found that she, shocked by the brutality of hisdet- 
tci’s, and terrified by his violence when he gained admittance to 
her, wai^ so ill as really to be incaiKible of undertaking such a 
voyage, he threiitened to takje his children, which last project 
was only prevented by Dunallan’s promise:- to pay him a large 
annuity as long as he left his wife and children at peace in this 
country. Poor Maria simk under his cruel treatment. Dun- 
alfiin and I accompanied her from place to place -frt wherever 
change of climatCj Or change of scene, held out any ho|)e of re- 
storing peace, pr strength to her wounded mind and weakened 
frame, but in vain§ it is now nearly two yeam since she expired 
ill , her brother’s arms, after frequently declaring, that ho had 
been the means of leading her to the only true source of happiness, 
and had taught her that death i itself could be welc*omed as the 
luirbinger of everlasting peace and joy. Her children Dunallan 
regards as his own. The worthless Ilarcourt still lives, and has 
married the wretched woman who seduced his affeetions from 
his wile/’ 

i “ Unfortuimte Maria!:” exclaimed Catharine, ^‘how much is 
our sex to be pitied ! ” added she, thoughtfully, duped by our 
affections, or sacrificed to - — She stopped. 

“ Yes;” said Mrs. Oswald, in a gentle tone of voice, “but 
misfortune is most severe when we have sought it ourselves. 
There is a great, an unspeakable consolation, my dear Catha- 
rine, in feeling, that though we suffer we have not left the path 
of duty: then we look on misfortune, not as a chastisement, 
but as a purifier. I hope, my dear young friend, you will yet 
have cause. m rejoice in your generous devotion to your father’s 
wishes,” 

All approaching footstep interrupted Mrs. Oswald. It was 
Dunallan; he looked at Catharine, then at his aunt — “am I 
an intruder ? ” 

^‘Oh, no,” said Catharine,: “but we did not hope to see you.” 

“We- supposed you were engaged for the whole morning,” 
said Mrs. Oswald. 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


8o 


“ On this morning ! my dear aunt, no, certainly. I hoped (,o 
have returned in time to attend you, but you were tied, and I 
have been scai’ching .every walk for you.” . ly 

You must not think of me, Mr. Dunallan,”. said Catbarine, 
“I know you have:,. important affairs to attend to here, which 
must not be neglected on my account.” , , . j, , 

j .“ You know,, Catharine,, what , I consider the most' important 
affair at present intrusted to me. I am sure Mrs. Oswald .will 
leave nothing untried tp render your present^ situation agreeable 
to i you, but I , believe you .mu,st allow.,,mci for._my own sake, 
while wei are . together, to, join in,, the,,: attempt : however, 
my dear, Catharine,,”i added,, lie, (pnckly ,, and earnestly/ 
“your own mind is,, the , source ,jfroui whence alone, I 
expect you to derive the happiness., l,^so ardently wish tor 

Catharine smiled, awfi, looked, Cjertainly. . not j very un- 
happy. ,,, ,!>. , i,,,,,; ,,p ,, 

“You recollect too well,” said she, “the account I, once gave 
you of my extreme inconsistency r, of disposition bat,; even 
without , supposing that changed, Arnmore; is, so new ;U[ scene ,tp 
me, that, I shallj not soon, jbe satisfied, I, perceive, in exploring 
its wonders ; its mental novelties, are, however, I must confess, 
most interesting to^me. You . know, Mr,, Dunallan, >you have 
to convince me, that a, sentiment I, expressed this moiTung, was 
very irrational.” ' . , 

I “.Yes,; at least ,![( wished, you yourself, to discover that it 
was so. ■ ,/■, ,j ;,p. !|,| j',. ‘ . i| i ’ .I'M. ; 

“I have not yet had time to examine it.”, i, , •/ . fi 
,j “;I, know you )have not, and I ahnost wish.,to decline enter- 
ing on a subject so very serious, when, I recollect how ,fre- 
(piently I have heard you say, that you detested pi-eaching out 
of the imlpit.” , , , ri ,< )t;S ; ’ i<: . : ' " 

“I entreat you, IMr. Dunallan,” said Catharine, , iblushing 
deeply, “to forget such foolish speeches of mine. jAIy heart 
rciiroached me, I assure you, the moment, they were ut- 
tered.” ■ . •. Ii,t • , ' 1 .1 

“ AYell, then, my dear, ingenuous Catharine,” .replied Dun- 

8 


86 


D UK ALLAN ; Oli, 


allan, “‘1 shall do as you desire. ' Your opinion is, that relig^ 
ion is too sacred a thing to be always present' to’ our thoughts. 
May I ask you to explain to me why you think so?” 

' “ Because’^ I think — why, all our lives are occupied with 
'such trifles, it would be almost profane, I think, to mix religious 
ideas with them.” t. . * ; ■! 

But' what,' my dear’ ' Catharine, do you include in your ideas 
of religion?” ' ' ‘ ' * '' ' 

“ I include,” replied Catharine, solemnly, “ belief in that 
great and glorious Being, who lias created the universe, and by 
his powtir jind' wisdom', supports it in existence ; whose attri- 
butes are beyond our comprehension, but who has, in ' mercy, 
sent his Son to reveal his will to us, and to' set us an example 
of the most perfect, the sublimdst virtue.” ' 

“ Well, my dearest Catharine, so far- our ideas are the same. 
You regard thatXrevelation of the will of 'God, then, as a rule 
to which we ought implicitly to submit ? ” 

“Certainly I do.” '■ ■ ‘ : > • 

“ But that revelation, 'dear' Catharine, talks’ frequently of 
^acknowledging God' in all our ways,’ of ‘walking I with God,’ 
of ‘trusting in him' continually,’ of ‘desiring to please him 'in all 
things.’” 

“ I confess I do not understand such expressions, Mr.‘ Dun- 
allan 'at least, the only meaning I Can attach to them does not 
satisfy me.” . 

“But do they not support the opinion, that'religion may and 
ought to be, our constant guide in every thing ? ” ' 

“ They certainly do;” • , J 1 • 

“ Call' you recollect any 'thing in revelation, Catharine, which 
forbids or condemns innocent pleasures ? ” ' ‘ ’ 

“No, nothing.” • - 1 ' hit . ; 

“ Or any precept which it would not increase our real hapiii- 
ness to'obey ?”’ . . i!.' , ^ 

“No, notonel” ^ d*' - ’ '"l;!- •; V i ’ 

“Then why do' you think its rules are 'too sacred to 'be al- 
ways present, even in our most cheerful thoughts ? ” 

“ I shall perhaps be* convicted of being irrational, I see,” 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


87 


replied .Catharine, smiling, «yet my fedings, still ^ say, that re- 
ligion would not/ be at . all suitable mixed with our usual occu- 
pations, or even opinions.^’ 

Most true, myi dearest >-Catharinej your, feelings say per- 
fectly right ;,(but ought not our <?ceupationSj ^and opinions to be 
made suitable .to religion.^ are we rational in professingour- 
selves,. Christians, while eur usual,, common opinions and occu- 
pations are such as to^ necessarily, banish the ideas which 
Christianity inspires; ?j ” , . 

“No, I must allow, y^e, are not. ,„But'I fear you must entirely 
nev'-model ,the wQrld,fMr. , Dunallan, before, you will be able to 
prevail on ,it to be. always influenced by such pure and, sacred 
principles.” , . ,, , 

“ Ah ! Catharine, that is the way we all attempt to escape 
from disagreeable truths;:, but each individual of that world has 
the charge of one heart,, and one life, only.” ,| 

“But that one heart may itself require,, to be changed per- 
liaps,” said Catharine. , , ,f , , ,, . ,,, ,? i 

“Not perhaps, dear Catharine, most cei*tainly every heart 
does. Oh, that I could -convince you,” added he, with, great 
earnestness and emotion, “ that you will never,., know what 
real happiness is until that one heart., is. so changed -as,. to 
willingly, anxiously, de.sire and endeavori to submit- its opin- 
ions, its wishes, its choice of occupations, its very feeling.'^, to be 
influenced and guided by revelation.” • , I ■ . 

“ I wish it was,” replied Catharine, seriously, “ but indeed 
I do not expect it ever will. It is not in my nature, I fear,, to 
be a saint,” added she, more gaily,, I must rest satisfied with 
a more common degree of goodness.”,.., ^ . .1 . . i 

, Dunallan seemed disappointed, and remtiined silent. 

Do not look so grave, Mr. Dunallan,” said Catharine, ,“ I 
.shall try to do whatever you wish me.’’,. 

“ Even to become a saint ? ” asked he, smiling, but rather 
sadly. ... .. ,, . < 

“Yes; even to become a saint, if that, is, indispensable,” 
replied she, accepting the arm he offered, and following ]\Irs. 
Oswald, who had risen, and was proceeding on her walk; Mrs. 


88 


DUNALLANVOR, 

Oswald, however, acknowledged . she was fatigued, artd Catha- 
inne insisted on deferring her visit to the village until next 
day. • ' 

•Dunallah studiously avoided the subj^t of religion during 
the i'emainder of the day, ' though Gatharine ttiade many at- 
tempts to introduce 'it.' Sh(i felt that lie had reason • to be dis- 
sktisfied With the Icidty 6f her feply to the earhest kindnesS of 
his wishes for liciv^and she sought for an 'opportunity to obtain 
his forgiveness ; but she, sought in vain. Diihallah found inehn^ 
to chahge the' 'subject the • moment ' she intrbduced it, and con- 
Vei'sed Se agrcdably about dfller things^ that for a time she for- 
got her' Wish but some' new proof of kindness or consideration 
on his part soon again brought her fault to her recollection with 
increased regret. ' ' ■ ^ : 

“Mr. Dunailan,”‘Said she at last, when the evening was far 
spent, “ you will not give me an opportunity to ask your for- 
giveness for niy unpardonably foolish reply to the interest you 
expressed in my improvement this morning. I think'yOu would 
forgive me if you kilew how much paih the remembrance of it 
still gives me.” ■ i. •. : . 

“ I do, from niy heart,' forgive' you, my dear Catharine, 
though' I confess you disappointed mC; Will yoii, in ^ your 
turn, forgive ‘ ine, if I- speak very plainly, very •seriously to you 
now?” ■ ■ ' ' 

“Indeed, I will. I wish you, Mr. Dutiallan, always to speak 
so to me;” ' • ” 

“ Theh, my dearest Catharine,'! think I ought to remind you, 
that ere'ni a' slight degree Jf levJty on such subjects requires for- 
giveness from a higher source. Yod rtiay paiti your friend, but 
the right to be ‘displeased is - not mine. Am I toO' solemn, 
Catharine'?” ' • ■' ' ' i 

“You are, indeed, veiy' solemn, .Mr. Dunalldn,” replied 
Catharirie, tears starting to her eyes. . ; 

“ But am I improperly so? ” asked he, with an expression of 
coheern in his counteiidnee. ■ ; 

“1 cannot ten, perhaps hot.” ■ : 

“ Will you examine ? ” 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


89 


“I certainly will.” ^ i „ , , ') , , ' r -* 

And caii>you,.forgi^fe,my plainness.?” , jj 7/ .. 

“ ^es ; 'and. whatever I may feel, I still wish you to be per- 
fectly so with me.” 7 Koindo-J'i <>; ':■ -n. y/ . .. 1 yj-J./. ' 

jAyiien ^atharine wa>'jj,aguinxaion(^, ishei, reflected oulthis con- 
yefsadon, almost j wishing to find .that ; Dunalian , had .beofl too 
severe; but the more seriously and candidly she examined tithe 
subject,, she felt the more conyinced that he was i right, and' that 
her ,Qwn, . mind and feelings were . flir too' slightly alive' to itho 
deep iinportance^of religion, and all that .was Iconnected with it. 
Her esteem for Dunallan increased. She felt also that .he was 
deeply .interested in her, as eveiy word land look expressed 
it. ThCi conviction of this was now delightlul to her, and ani- 
mated her with the 1 most earnest desire toj understand his char- 
acter and opinions. She felt certain they were rights > and de- 
termined, to attempt atilea.st to comprehend them. .1 Her im- 
agination, easily .passed. oTer r every difliculty, and j^ictured the 
time when she,, and J^unallan should :be. united iin ; opinions,! « in 
Avishes, in piu’suits, 2)erliaps in.' airections; . The waking dream 
was delightful too delightful to be iforsaken, till . sleep at. last 
mingled with it its still more unlikely visions- .j ;i ctai' 

. .;i i- «; (, 1 ' •'.jli-t ' liii Mi ,!(■■■: I ; ! :)■( 

• 7.. ■!,; ! ii! > ' _.)/■' ,‘1 ' 1- j ,. | 


. . oI t.-:' f [ . I,;!. ,.t 'f. • ;(<). jiiK' 

■ CH'APT'ER 'VII. '' ’■ '' 

. i; -•‘•.I'-/ ■ l-n; ! • :: <.// 7-' -i -ih’ > 

NeXT' morning - Catharine' obeyed' the summons 'to 'prayer?, 
Avith her determination of the evening before 'as strong' as ^eVofU 
Full 'of her' lie Av plan’s to fetudy Duiiallaffs opinions, and frankly 
to aAmw hef Avish to know and be guided by them,' she entered' 
the library with her cheek glowing, and her Avhole manner and' 
appearance unuSually animated. Dunallan was alone, and rose 
tomect'her. i > i < 

n'eed scarcely inquire for your health, Galharine,” said 
he,' smiling,' and regarding her Avith looks of evident admiration. 

“ Inquire for my mind’s health,’'’ replied ■ slie, smiling play- 
fuUy. ■ -et ' uui. p i " ' ■ ' ' ' ' 

8 * 


r. /•' 


90 


DUN ALL AN; OR, 


“ Those looks, Catharine, bespeak a tranquil mind also.” 

‘‘ Well, perhaps they may, for I Imve just foiined' a resolution 
which I ‘hope will in futur6 secure my peace of miiid.-^ ‘ 

“ May I ask what that resolution is ?/’ . »i.> i <- 

-i ‘‘ Yes, for I cannot putdt into execution Avithouf your consent.” 

My consent! dear Catharine !' You Oiave it, then, whatever 
your resolution is.” ’ . -.i!-'’ - ■ f = '“i i ' 

“ Ah, Mr. Dunallan, ^ou do not know Avliat you hlive prom- 
ised.* Nothing less than to assist and guide me in regulating 
this mind which' I know you think is in a sad state. , Do you 
retract;?” ' i»- '' .. - ^ ^ ^ ^ 

; “ No, dearest Catharine, I thank you for the jxu-mission a 
thousand times. Shall I tell you that I was almost afraid to see 
you this* ohoruing? I dreaded so inuCh that my solemnity ’last 
night had disgusted you.” i 

“ No,” replied ‘CWharine, “ on reflectidn T was cbrtvihCed you 
Avere right. But, tell me, Iioav shall I begin the attempt to feel 
more, and think more,' as 1 ought to do on religious subjects ?” 

'The entrance’ of Mrs. OsAvald and the children prevented 
1 lunallau’s ’ repl}\ ‘ ‘ Catharine ' felt' disappointed, as the servants 
immediat(*ly folloAved. ' • e • i * ‘ 

“ AVe shall not be interrupted,” said Dunallan, as he led her 
to the seat next himself, ^‘your impiiry can be ansAvered from 
Scripture ; ” and he immediately began to read some yerses of a 
Psalm, in Avhieh her question aa^rj^ asked; and ausAvered. 

Catharine Avas affected, and her voice, as she sung, betrayed 
lier emotion. • -Her mingled feelings ' Avore' almost (oppressive, 
until' Dunallan’s prayer gave them language and utterance. She 
feiwently joined inhirf humble ibut joyful thanksgivings; foi^’Iier 
heart overHoAAed Avith gratitude : and Avhen he supplicated* Avith 
theideeiK.^st learnestness 'that light inight bo impaired to thc'Still 
young and ignorant — f hat 'their hearts might be attracted and 
devoted to their Creator Avhile in the first gloAv of their etu’ly 
affections — that the. great Shepherd of -the sheep 'Would gather 
his 'lambs into his fold, and • preserve them therensafe from the 
allurements and pollutions of the Avorld — the ardent desire of 
h(*r soul followed his every request, and she felt a delight in 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE, 


01 


tliese aspirations of devotion, greater than she had ever experi^ 
enced fi*oni any earthly enjoyment. 

“You did indeed answer my question,” said slie afterwards to 
I^unallan, “and I understood. you, my true friend.” ,r, j, 

On this morning Dunallan liad no engagement, and offered 
to attend Catharine to Ids village. Mrs. Oswald begged she 
might be excused from going. , 

reallyjam top old to be able to walk everywhere with you, 
my two!, young friends,” said she, “and to-day I must visit my 
school: but if you jwill call on me there, I shall return home 
with you.” ^ j . 

“ You seem unwilling to trust yourself with me, Catharine,” 
said Dunallan, rather reproachfully, as she hesitated about 
leaving Mrs. Oswald. .. i i 

“ I am not, indeed,” replied she, blushing, and immediately 
rose to accompany him. . 

, The day was charming. Dunallan pi'oposed , walking to the 
village by a ditferent way from that Catharine had gbne the day 
before. This was longer, but still morcj romantic and l)eautiful, 
and in sevei’al places opened on the most extensive and mag- 
nificent views of the lake and surrounding scenery. t 

In Dunallan, Catharine at last found one Avho felt the charms 
of nature with rajitures even greater , than her, own, and who 
expressed , his admiration in -a language to which her every 
feeling replied. She stopped at each step to admire some new 
beauty. Dunallan appeared delighted with her enthusia.sm, and 
continued to lead her from one pieturescpie scene to another, that 
he might point out those views which he himself, most adniired. 
Their tastes were the same ; and Catharine warmly assented to 
Dunallan ’s reinark, that, the scenery round Arnmore was exactly 
the kind which most powerfully excited those feelings of admi- 
ration, “which are so delightful,” ladded he, “so purely so, when 
tliey elevate the thoughts and affections to the source of beauty 
and greatness.” . : r u . fi; f ; i. ' . 

“ But we are faf beyond the village,^’ said Dunallan at.last, 
after they had long wandered on, regardless of time or distance. 
“Tims M'e pursue pleasure,” added he, “ to the neglect of every 
thing else.” 


92 


" DUNALLAN ; OR, 


■ “ But this stirely is innoceut pleasure,” said Catharine. 

“Most innocent, and you ’can ‘visit iny poor vdllage at any 
time.” ^ ^ 

“ Oh, indeed ! I long very much to see your village. I shall 
probably thei*e also forget' how time flies.” .:i. /('(>• t . > 

’“Ah! Catharine,' Jewish I knew how to make the time 
always appear so short to you.” i. j ;i . , ,i! 

'•“I *think I never found it pass so' rapidly' as' at 'this Arn- 
more, which I exj)e'cted would be so very different,” 'said 'Catha- 
rine, gaily. “ But I fear Mrs. Oswald must now be waiting 
for us at her school. AVe must bid adieu to these charming 
scenes.” ' ; 

“ You expected 'Arnmore was to be sadly- dull and tiresome,” 
said Dunallan, as lie conducted Catharine by a short jiath 
through'the woods- to Mrs. Oswald’s school. 

“Indeed I scarcely knew what to expect, Mr. Dunallan. 
But all that IS past. 'You have -promised to assist me in 
forming myself into a fit inmate for this strangely interest- 
ing place. How shall I begin ? *I long to make the attempt 
— but here is Mrs. Oswald come’ to inect us. Oh 1 that is too 
bad.” . ■■ - 

“’Indeed I might as well have accompanied you,” said Mrs. 
Oswald. “Here have ''I ‘been wandering in every direction 
in search of you, after 'having ' stayed at my school an hour 
longer ’ 'than ufeual; and nobody 'at the village, or anywhere 
else, -had met you. Where can you " have concealed- your- 
selves?” ^ If li l- 'm- -i (' .Util 

Catharine attempted to apologize' for her inattention ; but 
Mrs. Oswald interrupted her. * •!'>.' -u-r? --' ;1 

'“ No apologies, my dear. I shall alwaya^ excuse ‘yclu for 
forgetting me, if Edward is the 'cause.” Mrs. Oswald- added-, 
aside to Catharine^ who had -turiied away blushing,' “^aml 
now, my deaf, I have punished you more tlian I wished 
and she then said aloud, “I am sure froni'^ both’' your 
looks, time has ^ pfisseti away agreeably wherever you ^have 
beeni” ■ <11.^ • . ,i: . \ iti I . di -t-dh. 

'“Afost agreeably, I allow 'on my part,” said Dunallan, with 
an expressiou of mild but hciu'tfclt pleasure. 


KNOW WIIAT YOU JUDGE. 


93 


‘‘I hope — indeOd I can feel pretty certain,” rejoined Mrs. 
Oswald, “ that> if heavdn spares us all, we shall not soon tire 
of each other.” 

If one of our party continues to be pleased with us,” re- 
joined Dunallan, “ I think ” i‘ia : • 

^‘ That depends on you, Mr. Dunallan,” interrupted Gatlia- 
rine, smiling. “You have undertaken to make me a rMiohal 
and religious being, capable and worthy to become an inmate 
of your Arnraore. But who conies here ? Do you expect 
visitors, Mr. Dunallan?” 

“ No, certainly,” replied hej following her looks to a path in 
the road by which three gentlemen were approaching. 

“ Walderford !” exclaimed he,* in a voice of joy, and was 
hastening to meet his friend, but turned again — “ Dear Catha- 
rine, I fear you may dislike this early call to oblige me by 
receiving my friends.” 

“ No, Mr. Dunallan, I shall meet your friends with the hope 
that they may become mine.” 

“A thousand thanks, my dearest Catharine,” replied he, 
with the most wai'mly grateful manner. He then flew to 
meet his friends. The meeting seemed most joyful on both 
sides. 

“ Ah ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Oswald, “ there is friendship ! friend- 
ship secure^ by the only certain everlasting bond. You per- 
haps know, Catharine, that Dunallan is called in the world 
‘One of the Saints.^ This Walderford is another ; and has 
become so notwithstanding the ridicule and contemptuous 
tieatment of a very clever but harsh father, and a host of 
worldly and dissipated relations. He is greatly beloved by 
Dunallan^ who considers him as Superior in talents as he is in 
worth.” I '■ . - > - 

Mrs. Oswald and Catharine w'alked slowly on, Dunallan and 
his friend soon seemed to be engaged in a convei*sation’ of the 
deepest interest to both. The other two gentlemen stopped at 
every step, apparently in admiration of the scenery which 
surrounded them. On their approaching nearer, Catharine 
perceived that the looks of all the party were directed towards 


94 


DUNALLAN; OR, 


her. Tills recalled her thoughts to her own situation, and the 
blush whii^i glowed on her cheek, and softened her downcast 
eyes, when Dunallan introduced his friends, were perfectly 
suited to the occasion, had she been united to him from the 
truest mutual affection. 

Dunallan introduced the other , gentlemen, Mr. Gower and 
Mr. Stanly j the former a little man, apparently between forty ' 
and fifty, with a countenance full of life and fire; the latter 
about the sapie age, but a large, mild, pleasing-looking man, 
with little of any other character in his countenance. Mr. 
Walderford, however, excited Catharine’s interest most, though 
his manner rather disappointed her. When introduced, he 
fixed his eyes on her for a moment with an expression of not 
very flattering scrutiny ; said a few hurried words of apology 
for intrusion ; then turning to ]Mrs. Oswald, renewed his 
acquaintance with her in a manner equally rapid and un- 
ceremonious. 

Dunallan offered his arm to Catharine. Mr, Gower walked 
by , her, and renewed his apologies for having visited his friend 
at a time when he miist be considered an intruder. “ Our 
reason,” continued he, “ was our despair of seeing Mr. Dun- 
allan at all before he went abroad, unless we had that pleasure 
now; for business, \yill prevent our being in London, I fear, 
]>efore departs thence, as it is much wished he= should find it 
agreeable to. set out on his important mission immediately. I 
hope,.” contjinued Gower, “ that you, Mrs. Dunallan, do not 
dread those northern .climates ? ” 

Catharme hesitated. “I dread no climate,” replied she at 
la.S(t, scarcely kno vying what she said. . ; ' 

“I am not so selfish as to vyish Catharine to share the fatigues 
of such a journey with me,” said Dunallan. “ I have not even 
prpposed to, her/’ 

Mr. Gower looked a^ Cathai’inc, and seemed to perceive that 
therp yvas something he did not understand in Dunallau’s reply, 
and her loohs. Walderford began to speak on another subject, 
which prov(id to her that he knew exactly how matters stor)d. 
‘She walked on in silence. The happy feelings, and gay hopes 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


95 


I’or the futiu-e, wliicli she had so lately experienced, had fled in 
a moment, and the idea of Dunallan’s- immediate departure, she 
knew not.whillier, filled iier with the most uneasy apprehensions. 
She .looked at him, ito read,' if possible, Some ray of light or 
comfort in his countenaneejibut was struck’J with' its^’ expression 
of dejection and disnppointmeiiti(;'»'i r/i’er: j ■=* /IC /tJ*; 

M r^?. Os w aid and Walderford- began- i mimediatelyi to ‘ converse 
together with much aj)parent interestl'butiboth'iii a 'tone of Voice 
j.. so low, that Cat h(U!ine' only heard that Duriallan’s^ plans fonn'cd 
the subject of their conversation. Dunallan himself continued 
silent, and^ccmed, losst in deepiand painful thought.- n n. i:; ’ 
'Sy'hen- they reached the t house, Catharine' hvould haveUvith- 
cUwndier.arm, but Dumillan. caught her hand!: ‘MVlll you give 
me your company for a few minutes longcry. Catharine ? ■ “ 

: “ Certainly; but your friends ~i— ”■> '] -si-.o-; -m! - . f 

“ Mrs., Oswald, wilb, take charge -of them,” replied ’he,' 'again 
2)lacingt.her hand within his arm, and leading her towards the 
library. . > > ’< ■ ' ' - • 

“Catharine,” said he,' on reaching'it,’“dl have delayed this 
conversation, too lojig. Tl did uiot so ; soon expect I iiliould be 
obliged to 2)erform a i)romise I once' made to scnne of m’y friends. 
I,hoj>ed thajt before I should bo Cc'dled on ito* go* abroad, I citlier 
should have been — that, we* should have been* in other Circinn- 
stanec’s, ,or that; you , could have ’ felt — I * wished to have tric’d ' at 
least -^/I hoi)edrr-r I 'need iiot say whaU^’ He hesitated — tliCii 
j)rQceeded, .“,You now know, my dear n Catharine;' that 1 ^ ahi 
called on I to go .abroad, iin. consequence of’ my otvn j)romise. 
Should you, however, (lisa2)2)rdve of any 2)lan I have formed, I 
conceive it my .first' duty at present to coi/sult your 'wishes, if 
jDossible.” , ‘ .li); • >■"" / ^ h .--.n . 'I 

: ‘‘Oh no„Mr. Dunatlan, Ii cannot wish j'oii to i change any plan 
on my account. May I ask how long you will be absent? ” ’■ 

“ Tint, dear Catharine, I -canniot exacilj fell. I undertook 
some time ago a-mission to Peter^sbui'g, os^tensibly to convey iit- 
structions.of ^?Ln impoiitanti nature to- our Ambassador there ; but 
the truth is, my mission regai’dsrtd private negotiation, Kvhich 
relates Jpore to the cause of religion,' than to the politics of the 


96 


DUNALLAX; OR, <’'‘ 

cliiy;' jukI which, though countenanced, and ’iiideed“ favored by 
government, [did liot originate there.' When I first thought' of 
undertaking, this mission, I did mot expect > that’* hny new tie' I 
should : faiin i could bind me to home. I acknowledge' I hud 
yieldedj^.too, muchrto' -pi'tyudiee ; but I must n(jt spealdbii this 
subject. My first motive really was a desire to benefit my 
fellow.,creatuves.:t"If I'wdth. this! I mix;ed^ others des's^ pure, I 
deserved, to feel iis I now i do, for having agreed 'to leave' iV home 
which, M’hen I am 'about to baiiish'inyself ’from' it, seeihs' 'almost 
a paradise.”! MI! Mt ' .i!' -! ,!'(>/' . .■ i '!■ ’*'> i i 

Catharine.remained I silent, a multitude of coUfuscd* ideas fol- 
lowed what 'Dunallan had said ji'bUfhis regret at leaving home 
was that i most distinctly • present, i ■ And why,” thoitgl it She‘, 

“not take as mudi as jpossiblerof- home with him?”' Yet she 
had not courage to propose herself accompanyingjiim, thbiigli 
jit that moment she could have done sojihad noti ai eeiHivin doiibt- 
fuhiess ( US to I whether t he included ’her in’ his' sources 'of happi- 
ness deterred her. • V • ' 

,,“Mrs. Oswald, 'I lam sure, i would willingly make 'a ‘home for 
you in any Ipart of the world, Mr. Bunallan,iand your dear chil- 
dren— ^ the climate is goodi”i nn J i- i »; ..i' < i 1> ’ 

.“Mrs. Oswakband.tho children!” interrupted Dunallan, who 
had eagerly ’Watched: CatJiafinVs I eountenahcc,- as she COntihue’d 
buried in thought 5 lihe ldoked reproachfully at' her fof h motnCnt, 
then turned away, she thought proudly, and walked to'a'window^ 
where he remained turned from her for a feW inoineiits’.'' ■ He, 
however, soon recovered- 'himself, and -resumed’ hi.s place near 
her. , -i I 'iiiln V . i ‘ • i-jt; 1' . -w - ; : 'ii' ■ 

“ I cannot wish Mrs. Oswald to undertake such a jbiirney;” 
said he, in his usual gentle tone of voice, “ and tlie children 
must not leave! this ;country. ’ But -liow, 'Catha'rine;'^ may''I ask 
what would be your wishes ? ” ’ k-. 1 n'-' ci '•)>■ -in 

Catharine had felt'hurt by his inahnef of rejilyingito th*e pro- 
posal of Mrs. pswald’o accompanying him.''‘'“'I jiev'ef uhdef- 
stand him,” -ithought' she, dreading to inake''atiy 'ahsw«ri"-"Duh- 

allan, however, waited tillfshe ishould. : -i i’ n -ib 

“If,” said she at last, “ Mr.s.;.' Oswald w'Ould remain Here, and 


KNOW AVHAT YOU JUDGE. 


97 


allow me to continue with her and the sweet children, I should 
prefer that to any other) situation.” 

“ Mrs. Oswald is your guest, Catharine ; and I am sure will 
remain with you as long as jmu wish it.” , , 

“ And does this plan please you, Mr. Dunallan ? ” asked 
Catharine, timidly. 

“Yes,” replied he, languidly. 

“Not quite, I ;^hiiik. Tell me any other. I only wish to 
please you.” 

“ And this pleases me most, dear Catharine, since ”. He 

stopped. 

“ Since what ? ” 

“ Nothing.” 

“ Are you now keeping your promise to be quite plain with 
me, Mr. Dunallan ? ” asked Catharine, rather reproachfully. 

“ Yes, dearest Catharine, I have been too plain ; but I see too 
well how it is. I must leave you, and in that event, your wishes 
are exactly mine'; and may the God of heaven be your guide, 
support, and happiness.” He then hastened from her, and 
Catharine, surprised and moved, retired to her own apartment 
to think on what had passed. She had never before seen Dun- 
allan so much agitated ; and she found it was infectious. 
“ What can he mean,” said she to herself ; “ is it possible that 
parting from an aunt and two children, can move such a man 
as Dunallan ? ” She dared scarcely admit the idea that separa- 
tion from herself could have caused emotions so painful. Indeed 
she could not believe it, for she had been accustomed to the 
devoted attentions of others, and gentle, considerate, and ever 
attentive as he was, Dunallan had never, till the last half hour, 
betrayed one emotion that she could have construed into what 
she considered that kind of regard. Yet why such emotion ? 
Why, if he wished it, indeed, did he not ask her to accompany 
him ? Surely, he could not expect her to offer — uninvited. Im- 
possible. In vain she attempted to account for his extreme 
agitation. She could not, however, altogether banish the idea 
that she herself was the cause. At one moment her gratitude 
to him, and her increasing admiration for his character, joined 

9 


98 


DUNALLAN ; OK, 


to this softening thought, led her to long for an opportunity of 
proving to him how much she valued that character, and that 
regard ; but the next, she shrunk from the idea of any expla- 
nation that might lead to her leaving her country, her father, 
Elizabeth, every person, every thing, she had ever known or 
loved, to accompany alone that being whom she had, till within 
the last few days, regarded with dread and aversion. Again 
the idea of Dunallan’s kindness would return — his gentleness, 
the enthusiastic affection he inspired in those around him, his 
solitary feelings among strangers in a strange land. It was 
from reflections of the last kind that she was again called to 
meet Dunallan. Ilis manner, however, soon chased them away. 
All appearance of unusual tenderness and emotion was gone. 
He was even less gentle than usual. He seemed again that 
Dunallan whom she had so long regarded with dread. His 
manner, however, soon became as gentle as usual, and his 
countenance, though still thoughtful, resumed those mild and 
feeling expressions which liad been gaining on Catharine’s affec- 
tions every moment since she had left her father’s roof ; and 
when he entered into conversation with his friends, she soon 
forgot all that was past or 'future while listening to him. The 
subjects of conversation were not new to her, but many of the 
opinions expressed’ by Dunallan and his friends were entirely 
so. They all seemed anxious to engage her to join in what 
passed, and soon succeeded. She began with great animation, 
to defend those opinions she had been accustomed to consider 
just, but which she now heard regarded as erroneous. Her 
looks and manner had more effect, perhaps, than her arguments, 
but Mr. Gower in vain attempted to follow her half playful,, 
half serious, sometimes fanciful, but always- ingenious and lively 
defence of her own sentiments. He was lost 'in the maze, 
though quite unconvinced; and she turned from .him to Mr. 
Walderford; declaring she had converted one opponent, and gaily 
demanding whether he too did not find her arguments quite 
unanswerable?' *’ • > : I ■ * . i - 

He smiled, and asked; ‘‘on- what subject?” • “On every sub- 
ject we have conversed upon,” replied she; “but particularly 
respecting candor, and charitable opinions of others.” 


KNOW AVHAT YOU JUDGE. 


99 


“You say, I believe, madam,” replied be, ^ that charity con- 
sists in — may I ask you to repeat what ? I may perhaps do 
injustice to. your defini'tioni” ^ . 

“ Why, I think it consists in — in — . I. do not remember that 
I said Avhat it consisted in. /Y only said I, thought it very un- 
charitable to suppose people devoid of religious principle when 
we Av ere ignorant of their opinions on the subject — a subject 
Avhich is. with many, and I think ought to be with all, confined to 
their own hearts.” ", , -r. 

“ How is it possible, madam ? ’’-asked ■ Walderford, fixing his 
mild but inquiring eyes on Catharine, r' > < 

i Why. not replied she. think ”. She hesitated, 

Walderford looked so serious, though A^ery mild. 

“ Do 'we not imply, vdien we talk of principle,” continued 
he, in a gentle tone.; of voice, “ something which is the source or 
motive of action; and is it possible that our actions of opinions 
) will not betray it, if any strong principle has possession of our 
minds and hearts ? We have a simple but infallible rule to judge 
by in this case,” added he, smiling, “ Avhen we see a bitsh pro- 
duce nothing but thorns, we are not uncharitable in concluding 
that it cannot be a vine.” 

; “ But the person of whom Ave spoke is one of the most inof- 

fensive of human bbings,” ' said Catharine ; “ your simile of 
thorns applies very ill to him.” 

*•1 “ I confess it does ; but still, let me ask, what good to himself, 
or to any living creature, has his life produced ? He is good 
tempered, I allow, and, to his fox-hunting friends, very agreea- 
ble, perhaps; but what account, were he called on for it, could 
he give of what he has done with all his immense fortune and 
-naturally not deficient understanding ? ” 

; fWhat account could any of us give?” replied Catharine, 
“ but that Ave have put our fortunes to no bad use that we are 
conscious of.” 

“Ah, Catharine,” said Dunallan, “you have no chance of 
success in < the argument, if you bring forward such a plea as 
that.” - . " ‘ 

“ Will you assist me ?” asked she, smiling sweetly. 


100 


dunallan; or, 


I fear I cannot ; I should be found to join your oppo- 
nent.” 

“ Ah, then, I shall take refuge in flight,” said she, “ if Mrs. 
Oswald will come with me.” 

Mrs. Oswald rose immediately, and though Dunallan’s 
looks seemed to entreat their stay, retired with her young 
friend. 

“ And now, my dear madam,” said Catharine, when they 
had reached the drawing-room, “tell me what Mr. Dunallan 
finds so amiable in this Mr. Walderford? for I think I never 
saw any young man with such grave and severe manners.” 

“ Are they more so than you found Dunallan’s at first, my 
dear?” 

“ Why, perhaps not ; but what is this ? ” exclaimed she, ob- 
serving a harp placed at the other end of the room ; “ my harp ! 
impossible! it could not have reached me. No, it is not 
mine.” 

“ It is one Edward ordered for you, my dear ; it ought to 
have been here sooner.” 

Catharine touched the strings, and sighed deeply. 

“ Why that sigh, Catharine ? ” 

“ Because this attention of Mr. Dunallan’s reminds me of its 
cause,” replied she ; “ he wishes kindly that I may be amused 
in his absence ; but this will assist me to express the only feel- 
ings I shall experience,” added she, beginning to play a melan- 
choly air, while the tears stood in her eyes. 

Mrs. Oswald smiled and said, “ I cannot wish you to feel 
otherwise, dear Catharine.” 

Catharine blushed and left the harp, saying, “ Mr. Dunallan 
seemed to think the argument I used before we left the dining- 
room a very bad one, my dear Mrs. Oswald ; pray, what does 
he think we ought to do with our fortunes — give them all to 
the poor ? ” 

“ No, my love, he does not do that himself ; and many 
people who are otherwise very worthless, have so much hu- 
manity of disposition, that they cannot witness suftering with- 
out relieving it if it is in their power. What Edward 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


101 


considers right is this — that each individual should attempt 
to form an idea of what good it is within his power to do 
in the situation in which he is placed, with the fortune, or 
influence, or mental powers, or advantages of any kind, with 
which heaven has intrusted him ; to form his plan of life after 
this examination, and to improve, and pursue it steadily, if 
possible, while he remains in this world ; and this he thinks 
the duty of every rational being, for all have something in their 
power.” 

“ All ! ” repeated Catharine. 

“Yes, my love, all. There is scarcely any one, perhaps, 
with fewer means of being useful than myself; yet, I hope, I 
am not entirely a cumberer of the ground. There are some 
who are more ignorant than I am of the one thing which is 
of equal importance to us all : I can instruct them. There 
•are others in affliction ; tO‘ them I can point out the means by 
which I obtained consolation. God has given me those two 
sweet children, and while they are intrusted to me, I still have 
a motive for wishing to live : and should ^ he deprive me of 
every other means of attempting to prove my love to him, may 
I,” added she, raising her eyes to heaven, with an expression 
of deep and pious emotion, “ may I be enabled to declare that 
his support to my soul is sufficient, and thus recommend his 
service with my last breath.” ■ . 

“You have another means of being useful in your power 
which you have not named, my dear Mrs. Oswald,” said Catha- 
rine, softening into tears, “be a guide to me. Mr. Dunallan 
undertook the task, but he has too many concerns of greater 
moment — he will soon forget such a promise — yet every 
word you say convinces me more and more how little I know 
what is truly right — how much I require a guide in every 
thing.” 

“ Ah ! my love, you must not trust to earthly guides,” re- 
plied Mrs. Oswald, “you must seek a guide far superior to 
Dunallan. As for me, my dearest Catharine, my friendship, my 
advice, my opinions on every subject, my earnest prayers are 
yours whenever you desire them ; and ray warm affection 

9 * 


102 


dunallan; or, 


you already possess. But, my love, you utterly mistake Dun- 
allan’s character, if you suppose any affairs in which he may 
be engaged, however important, will leail him to neglect those 
nearly connected with him, and most particularly yourself, 
now, his nearest of all relations. Write ' to him, my dear 
Catharine, since you must separate. . Get acquainted with him 
in this way. You will find him study with attention, and reply 
ill a manner that will perhaps surprise you,, to the very least 
important parts of your letters ; and also endeavor to make 
his agreeable to you, however deeply he may be engaged in 
the most important affairs. The happiness, the ultimate hap- 
piness of the human race is the vast object of his desires. In 
this he is a citizen of the world ; every immortal being is of 
equal importance in his opinion, and equally worthy of his 
limited efforts to promote his best interests ; but the feelings of 
a being who would sacrifice almost every thing to preserve the 
happiness of the meanest of his immortal fellow men, — the 
feelings of such a heart to those known and loved by him, are 
of a nature inexpressibly tender. Again, my love, let me 
advise you to correspond frequently with Edward. I know he 
will wish it, and I am sure the consequence will be, your feeling 
for him that affection which will make his return the first wish 
of your heart.” 

“ And why should I wish to feel such an affection for him ? ” 
asked Catharine, sadly. 

“ I shall tell you why, from experience, my love ; because 
feeling a tender affection for an estimable object is the sweetest, 
the happiest of all earthly things. Ah, Catharine!’ how su- 
perior is that affection excited by great and good qualities, to 
that into which we are won, we know not how, by pleasing 
manners, or an agreeable exterior, while we are ignorant of 
the real character. How happy, how easy is that wife, who 
knows that on every subject her husband’s principles are as 
strictly pure as her own, compared to her, who loves a being 
whose past life she must avoid inquiring about ; whose prin- 
ciples are guided by fashion, and whose affection and fidelity to 
her have no other security than her powers of }>leasing. or the 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


103 


absence ' of temptation ? And oh ! how different must theii 
feelings .be,” added Mrs. Oswald, with deep emotion, “ when 
the hour, perhaps the unexpected hour arrives of their last 
separation ! To part from him whose peace has been made with 
Heaven, whom we have regarded with veneration, while we 
witnessed his increasing nearness to perfection; whose ‘path ^ 
we have seen ‘ shine more and' more unto the perfect day ; ’ 
to part with such an one, even with the firmest conviction 
that he has entered into that perfect day, is severe, oh how 
severe! But to see one whom we love more than our own 
lives, called to another state of being ignorant — unprepared ; 
to look back for comfort, arid to recollect misspent time — 
misapplied talents — contempt of the Being before whom he is 
on the eve of appearing ; the past is too dreadful — we turn to 
the future — all is darkness ; or if there is a gleam of hope it 
must arise from a change of views and feelings in the perhaps 
almost insensible — or suffering — or feverish — or delirious 
object of our agonized affections ! ” 

. “Dreadful!” exclaimed Catharine, shuddering. 

“ Dreadful ! indeed,” replied Mrs. Oswald. “ Yours, my 
dear Catharine, will, I trust, be ^a very different lot, however 
clouded the early part of your married life may be ; but forgive 
me for speaking on this subject, I have been led into it una- 
wares.” 

Catharine made no reply, but, after a few moments of thought- 
ful silence, asked Mrs. Oswald to walk out with her. “ Mr. 
Dunailan,” said she, “is too ' kindly solicitous about me; he 
seems to think he ought to attend to me even in preference to 
his friends. I must not be ungrateful. Let us go out, and de- 
sire the servants to say that the fineness of the evening tempted 
us, but that we shall return in an hour or two.” 

^ Mrs. Oswald agreed to Catharine’s proposal, but on reaching 
the hall, they met the gentlemen on their way to join them in 
the drawing-room: 

“ Going to walk again ? my dear aunt,” said Dunailan 
approaching Catharine, and offering his arm, “ I hope you will 
allow us to accompany you.” • 


104 


DUNALLAN; OR, 


“ Oh ho,” said Catharine,^ blushing and passing him, we 
wish to She stopped, not knowing what to say. 

“ I do not mean to intrude,” replied Dunallan, in a voice which 
made Catharine turn back. He seemed really hurt. 

“ Oh,” said Mrs. Oswald, “ I must tell you our secret. Catharine 
supposes that you gentlemen must wish for some private con- 
versation, and that you would feel more at liberty if we ladies 
disposed of ourselves, so as to rid you of the trouble of attend- 
ing to us.” 

Dunallan turned to Catharine. Her looks confirmed the 
truth of what Mrs. Oswald had said. His countenance softened. 
‘‘I wish for no ’conversation, Ca'tharine, to which your presence 
would not give its greatest interest.” 

“ We all have cause to entreat your presence, madam,” said 
Mr. Gower, laughing. “ Dunallan’s thoughts have not been 
one moment with us since you left the room.” 

Dunallan reddened excessively, and attempted, but with 
embarrassment, to change the subject. Mr. Gower, however, 
seemed to enjoy his confusion, and continued to rally him With- 
out mercy.” 

“ I know why you do net marry, Gower,” said Walderford 
at last. 

‘‘ Do you, Walderford ? That is more than I do myself.” 

“ It is because you feel that you would be most remarkably 
ridiculous as a new married man.” 

Mr. Gower laughed. “ That may be one reason ” 

“ Do not seek for more reasons,” interrupted Mrs. Oswald. 

You gentlemen, who glory in your liberty, are always most 
completely governed when you do marry.” 

Mr. Gower himself now became the object of raillery ; but the 
conversation soon assumed a more serious tone. Dunallan and 
his friends talked without reserve. They explained to Mrs. Os- 
wald and Catharine the nature of the affair which induced Dun- 
allan to go abroad; what had given rise to it; and what the 
views of government, and those benevolent men were, at whose 
request he had undeKaken the mission. Catharine perceived, 
by what his friends said in conversation, that Dunallan was very 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


105 


highly esteemed by those distinguished individuals. He himself 
seemed to feel the most enthusiastic and lively interest in the 
success of his undertaking. Some difficulties were started by 
Mr. Gower. These Dunallan met with good-natured raillery. 
Mr. Walderford’s objections were more connected with his feel- 
ings of anxiety for the success and reputation of his friend, in an 
undertaking difficult in itself, and exposed to misconstruction. 
These objections Dunallan endeavored to do away by the 
calmest and most convincing arguments, while his manner to 
his friend expressed the most earnest anxiety to divest him of 
every cause of uneasiness. 

“ You seem to wish to dissuade Mr. Dunallan from under- 
taking this benevolent mission, Mr. Walderford,” said Catha- 
rine. 

“ I confess I do,” replied he, “ because there is another situa- 
tion we wish him to accept of, which would keep him with us, 
and in wffiieh I am certain he would distinguish himself ; but 
distinction has no charms for him.” 

“ Distinction no charms ! ” repeated Catharine. “ Impossi- 
ble ! I shall never understand you, Mr. Dunallan. What do 
you value ? ” 

Dunallan smiled, and was going to reply ; but Mrs. Oswald 
answered for him. 

“ He values that distinction, my dear Catharine,” said she, 
“which will one day be 'bestowed by his Master in heaven, in 
those few simple but precious words, ‘ Well done, good and 
faithful servant.’ ” 

“ But, my dear madam,” said Catharine, somewhat indig- 
nantly, “ do you really think that obtaining distinction honor- 
able in this world, would make him less worthy of that you 
mention ? ” 

“If distinction was his only aim, my dear, or if preferred to 
usefulness without it, I certainly think it would.” 

Catharine was silent for a few moments, then, said, half re- 
proachfully, to Mrs. ■ Oswald, “ and you, madam, wish Mr. 
Dunallan to leave us.” 

“ My aunt is my best and kindest friend on this occasion, my 


106 


DUNALLAN ; OR, 


dear Catharine,” said Dunallan in reply. “ She assists me to 
keep , the plaiiu path of duty, instead of attempting to lure me 
from it.” 

As the evening passed away, Catharine became every mo- 
ment more sad. Dunallan, too, attempted in vain to join cheer- 
fully in the conversation. He became absent and thoughtful, 
and only seemed to hear w^hen Catharine spoke. When she was 
silent, he continued to look at her, apparently unconsciously, 
with an expression of the deepest, though most melancholy 
interest. , , 

Catharine’s heart filled when she bade him good-night, and 
she turned away to conceal the tears which she could not 
restrain. 

She then hurried to her own apartment, and, dismissing Mar- 
tin, indulged her tears without restraint. She continued half 
the night awake in deep and painful thought. In vain she 
attempted to reconcile Dunallan’s undisguised tenderness, and 
evident unwillingness to leave her, with his never, by even the 
slightest hint, expressing a wish that she should accompany him. 
At last the thought struck her, that pity for her singular and 
unhappy situation, of which he had been one cause, had excited 
in Dunallan’s generous and feeling nature those strong emotions 
she had witnessed. She placed herself in idea in the same cir- 
cumstances, and thought his feelings were perfectly natural ; 
yet the idea was mortifying, and she attempted to banish it, and 
to believe what she now most fervently wished, that their sepa- 
ration was as painful to him as she was forced to acknowledge, 
to her own heart, it now was to her. 


_ ; CHAPTER VHI. 

• - - - ■ . ‘ . .] 

Aftkr a few hours of unrefreshing sleep Catharine rose 

next morning with her heart still oppressed by the thoughts of 


KNOW WIIAT YOU JUDGE. 


107 


the night before. When she began to dress, and saw her pale 
and exhausted looks, she determined not to betray her feelings, 
by appearing at prayers, or at breakfast; but soon recollecting 
that an indisposition so serious as to confine her to her apart- 
ment might be ascribed ,to the same cause, she waited till the 
bell for prayers had been finished for a few minutes, then entered 
the library, in the hope, that when all were assembled, she 
might hurry to her seat unobserved. In this, however, she was 
disappointed. Dunallan had waited for her; and every eye 
was turned to her when she entered the room. She apologized 
with much confusion for her. lateness, and entreated Dunallan 
to proceed. 

“First, let me chide you for joining us at all this morning, 
my dearest Catharine,” said Mrs. Oswald, “ you seem really 
unwell, my dear child,” a.dded she, looking at Catharine with 
much concern. 

“ Oh; not at all, my. dear Mrs. Oswald, only a little headache 
which always makes me look thus.” ' 

Catharine blushed as she told her* falsehood, and meeting 
Dunallan’s eyes, which were anxiously fixed upon her, she 
again blushed still more deeply. Dunallan began to read, but 
Cathai’ine could not listen even to him. Her thoughts immedi- 
ately returned to the painful idea, that Dunallan’s kindness and 
tender interest were excited by compassion for her, and she 
determined that from that moment he should have no cause to 
suppose she was unhappy. At breakfast she affected an in- 
difference, and even a gaiety of manner, which ill expressed the 
feelings of her heart. But Catharine could not long act a part : 
she soon sunk into silence, and that thoughtful sadness which 
the feelings of the moment produced. Dunallan, instead of 
being deceived by her attempts to appear more gay, was even 
more tenderly attentive, and seemed more sad than the evening 
before ; and Catharine felt relieved when, after breakfast, he 
received some letters which drew his attention from her. These 
letters, however, soon seemed to excite a very painful interest. 
After musing for some time over their apparently disagreeable 
contents, Dunallan .requested his friends to accompany him for 
a short time to the librar^^ 


108 


dunallan; or. 


“ You have received bad news, Edward ! ” exclaimed Mrs. 
Oswald, in a hurried and anxious tone of voice. 

“ No, my dear aunt.” He then held the letters to Catharine. 

“ If you can be at the trouble to read these, my dear Catha- 
rine, they will show my aunt that I have no cause of uneasiness, 
but that of being obliged to leave home sooner than I expected.” 

He then left the room with his friends. Catharine’s hands 
trembled so violently, she could not unfold the letter she wished 
to read. Mrs. Oswald took it, and read aloud its contents. 
They were merely an earnest desire expressed by those gentle- 
men who managed the affair in which Dunallan was about to 
be engaged, that he would join them in London as soon as it 
was possible, a very favorable opportunity having offered for 
his going on his destination. 

Mrs. Oswald was a good deal affected, and struggled in vain 
to suppress her tears. Catharine did not weep ; she was over- 
powered. She knew before that he was to leave her soon ; but 
this sudden call for his departure destroyed at once every secret 
hope of an explanation, or of she knew not what, which she had 
unconsciously cherished. Mrs. Oswald soon recovered her com- 
posure, and, looking at Catharine’s pale and expressive coun- 
tenance with surprise, said, “ My dear girl, Edward will not go 
if you express the slightest wish that he should remain.” 

“ Not for the universe would I express such a wish,” replied 
Catharine, “ I have no such wish, for he evidently desires to 
go ; ” and she burst into tears. 

“ My dearest Catharine,” said Mrs. Oswald, in a solemn but 
soothing tone of voice, “ do not deceive me. You know you 
promised to be guided by my advice. Trust me, my love ; do 
not let pride or false delicacy injure both your happiness. 
Dunallan has assured me, that should you wish him to remain, 
he would consider it his duty to do so, unless you would 
aceompany him, my dear Catharine, which, I believe, would be 
his wish.” 

“ Oh, no, my dear Mrs. Oswald, that is not his wish — we 
have conversed on the subject — he never proposed my going. 
Dearest Mrs. Oswald, I entreat you never mention the subject 


KNOW WnAT YOU JUDGE. 


109 


to him. I would sooner die than that he should imagine that 

. Promise me, dearest Mrs. Oswald, that you will never 

utter a word to him on the subject.” 

Mrs. Oswald hesitated — an approaching step terrified 
Catharine. 

“ Will you not promise, Mrs. Oswald ? ” exclaimed she, in an 
agony of apprehension. 

“ I promise, my love ; compose yourself.” 

Catharine attempted to do so. The step passed, but the next 
was Dunallan’s. He appeared so sad, that Catharine’s eyes 
again filled as he approached. He did not look at her, however, 
but said in a low voice to Mrs. Oswald, 

“ I think I must go to-day — I ought — ” - 

“ To-day ! ” exclaimed Catharine, “ so soon ! ” her voice 
changed, and she stopped. 

Mrs. Oswald asked if he was quite prepared to go so sud- 
denly. ' ■ 

No, not quite, certainly, in any way,” replied he, with emo- 
tion ; “ but delay, I believe, will not do.” 

Not even till to-morrow ? ” said Catharine. 

“ Certainly,” replied Dunallan, “ I may delay till to-morrow 
since you propose it.” 

Not for me,” replied she, hurriedly. 

“ A sister might wish this little delay, Catharine,” said he, 
reproachfully ; “ fear not, I shall not misunderstand your feel- 
ings.” 

, Catharine felt relieved. Let it be to-morrow, then,” said 
she, sweetly, and holding out her hand to him. 

He only held it for a moment, then let it go. He seemed 
displeased ; but after a few moments turned again to Catharine, 
and requested permission to write to her. 

“ I wished to propose this,” replied she. He looked much 
pleased. “ Mrs. Oswald,” added Catharine, looking round for 
her, but she had slipped away. Catharine became confused, and 
forgot what she was going to say. Dunallan looked at her for 
a moment, then said, 


10 


110 


dunallan; oRj 


“What did Mrs. Oswald say to you, my dear 'Catharine, 
about my writing to you ? ” • 

Catharine instantly recollected herself. “ She said I should 
have great pleasure in receiving letters — ” - 

“ So it was my aunt who excited your wish to hear from me,” 
interrupted Dunallan. 

“ Not entirely ; but I should certainly not have proposed it-, 
had she not told me that you had time for every thing.” 

“ Time, Catharine I time to write to you I T shall esteem it a 
pleasure — a sweet recreation, to which I shall look forward 
Avith impatience. * You will answer my letters ; at least some of 
them?” >• 

“ Will you tire of an answer to each ? ” asked Catharine, 
scarcely knowing what he meant. ^ 

“ Tire ! oh never ! but I shall write very frequently ; for I 
am so sociable- andicommunicative that I feel but half pleased, 
or half any thing, till I have imparted my feelings to those I 
Avish to love me. If I could be so happy as to prevail on you 
to Avrite thus to me, I should feel absence greatly sweetened in-^ 
deed.” 

Catharine smiled. “ My answers will entirely depend on 
your letters,” replied she. 

“ Then you Avill be as frank as I shall -be. Oh ! 'Catharine, 
keep your promise, and’ then I shall, perhaps, have cause to re- 
joice in this painful -separation.” 

Dunallan then begged leave to arrange A\dth Catharine those 
affiiirs which it Avas necessary she should manage in his absence ; 
and these he had made so perfectly easy, that, to her oAvn sur- 
prise, she understood all he -Avished. She, however, proposed 
that Mrs. OsAvald should act for him in his absence ; but Duh- 
alian gently urged the propriety of her beginning to attend to 
such matters, and added, “ I shall write my opinion on this sub- 
ject, my dear Catharine ; Ave must not noAV lose our fcAV precious 
moments.” 

Catharine only needed^to knoAv Avhat Dunallan Avished, to 
make any thing interesting to her ; even money imatters, to 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


Ill 


which he seemed to attach a responsibility, in a quarter where 
she had never before considered herself accountable. 

“ We are only stewards of our large fortunes, my dear Cath- 
arine,” said he. “We ought to know, not only that it is not 
improperly squandered away, but ought to study with deep at- 
tention how it may be most usefully employed, and follow stead- 
ily those objects which our calmer reflections point out as most 
desirable to be obtained by these gifts of Providence.” 

Catharine promised to do all he wished ; and Dunallan, on 
his part, promised to write his opinion to her on every subject 
on which she wished to know it. After this arrangement, Dun- 
allan presented some papers to her. 

“ These, my dear Catharine, are my plans and wishes about 
my village ; the names of the villagers, and many other things 
which I leave with you to arrange and follow out as you think 
best.” 

“ Oh, I am incapable of this ! ” exclaimed Catharine, “.Mrs. 
Oswald ” 

; . “ Ask Mrs. Oswald’s advice ; but, unless you fear the trouble, 
believe me, dear Catharine, such occupations will add to your 
happiness. Will you make the trial ; and if you do find the 
trouble too great, Mrs. Oswald will I know relieve you.” 

“ And you will despise me,” said Catharine. “ Oli, do not 
leave such important matters in my care.” 

“ AVill you not make the attempt ? I must despise myself, 
riot you, dear Catharine, if I find that I so little know what is 
agreeable occupation.” ' • . ■ i , 

“ If you will promise, then, not to despise me if I fail, I will 
attempt to do all you wish.” o . . ; 

Dunallan had loaded Catharine with occupations before they 
separated, but she felt gratified to be thus trusted. The hope 
of hearing frequently from her, seemed to have greatly recon- 
ciled Dunallan to his immediate departure, and Catharine, too, 
felt her heart lighter when she looked forward to this means of 
intercourse. > ' " • 

It was late before Dunallan had finished imparting his plans 
and wishes. After dinner he proposed spending the evening 


112 


DUNALLAN ; OR. 


in a beautiful retreat near the castle, which he still called 
My Mother’s Walk.” EVery one assented with pleasure to 
this proposal. 

The evening was delightful, and this favorite walk of 
Dunallan’s was so situated as to receive all the charms it gave. 
The lake, unruffled, and reflecting on its bosom, now glowing 
in the soft evening light, the rocks and wooded hills, which 
formed its boundary. The more distant mountains, reddened 
by the bright rays, lay before them — while the castle, rising 
from its picturesque cliffs, also gilded by the glowing light, 
seemed to tower from the wooded dell which separated it from 
Dunallan’s walk. 

The scene seemed to suit the feelings of all the party. Catha- 
rine felt it calm her spirits, or rather mingle with the sadness 
she could not overcome, those undeflnable emotions which 
though full of melancholy are still exquisitely pleasurable. 
All remained silent when this scene first opened on their view. 

Dunallan broke the silence. 

“ Do you remember such an evening as this at Dunallan 
Castle, Catharine ? ” asked he, “ when I accompanied you to 
your favorite walk ? ” 

*■' I do,” replied she, “ and this scene greatly resembles that 
which I so much loved at Dunallan Castle.” 

Mr. Gower and Mr. Stanly soon left the party and walked 
to some distance, wholly occupied- with the striking and mag- 
nificent views which presented themselves at every step. Wal- 
(lerford remained near his friend. After a few turns, Dunallan 
led Catharine to a seat which commanded the most extensive 
and magnificent part of the view — and placed himself between 
her and his friend. i A 

. “ Do you recollect our conversation on that evening you 
mentioned, Mr. Dunallan ? ” asked Catharine. > • 

“ I do, perfectly.” . r 

“Mr. Dunallan on that evening,” continued Catharine, 
addressing Mrs. Oswald, “ blamed me for ascribing to nature 
— to an undefined idea, the glory which is due to the Author 
of all those beauties which surround us.” 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


113 


“I agree with my nephew, my dear, in thinking we are 
wrong wdien we banish the Creator of our existence from our 
thoughts, at the very moment we are most sincerely admiring 
his works. I have seen many turn coldly away, when that 
beauty they admired. as the work of nature, was piously 
ascribed to its real Author. There are times, however, 
when we all wish to derive comfort from the idea of His 
presence — at least with those we love,” added Mrs. Oswald, 
looking at Dunallan. “We all wish to feel assured that He 
who so profusely throws around us all those beauties and 
blessings, is also the tender guardian and protector of our 
absent friends.” 

“ True,” said AYalderford ; “ 1 cannot help at times, liov/- 
ever, feeling indignant, when I hear people Avho never seem to 
have any religious feelings, except when some such painful 
event as separation from friends takes place, then appropriate 
to themselves all the comforts which are surely intended exclu- 
sively for those who are as much influenced by religion, when 
surrounded by blessings, as they are when in danger of being 
separated from those blessings.” 

“ But they are sincere at those sad moments,” said Catha- 
rine, “ and every pious feeling will surely be accepted and re- 
warded as far as it is sincere.” 

“ I should be sorry to despise the slightest emotion of piety,’^ 
replied AYalderford ; “ but, my dear madam, would such feel- 
ings be considered of any value in human intercourse? 
Would you esteem that to bo real affection in a dependent 
which led him to apply to you for assistance in matters where 
you alone could help him, and at all other times allowed him 
to neglect or despise your service, and positively disobey your 
orders ? ” • . 

“ Certainly not ; but we cannot judge of the Divine Being 
by such comparisons — we cannot ascribe to him human feel- 
ings, and human sentiments, such as we experience towards 
those who treat us ill.” 

“ I allow we cannot altogether — yet we must conceive of 
Him whom we cannot comprehend, from what He has revealed 

1 .•> * 


114 


dunallan; or, 


of Himself, and from what he demands of us ; and you know, 
my dear madam. He requii'es our hearts, wliich must surely 
mean the supreme place in our affections.’^ 

“ But do you understand that literally of our human affec- 
tions — our common feelings ? ” asked Catharine, smiling. 

‘‘I do, dearest madam. I am not conscious of possessing 
two hearts — two sets of affections — r one ffori common use-; and 
another, sacred, and only to be called forth in sorrows and dif- 
ficulties ; to approach a forgotten, and almost unknown God.” 

Catharine looked around her. 

“ I believe we all understand it so, my dear Catharine,” said 
Dunallan. 

“ Why, then, I suppose we all should be of the same opinion,” 
said she, “ if we explained ourselves ; for I should think the 
whole human race lost, at least with very few exceptions,” added 
she, recollecting herself for a moment, “ were we to understand 
it literally. But, to be sure, I cannot judge of the hearts of 
others,” she rejoined, “I ought not.” 

Judge by your own heart, my dear Catharine,” said Dun- 
allan. 

“ By my own heart ! then I must condemn myself ; I cannot 
stand this test literally. Am I to believe that any human being 
can, Mr. Dunallan ? ” 

“ Yes, I believe many. I do not mean to say, dear Catha- 
rine, that any human being lives, without often — daily, hourly, 
acting or feeling or thinking wrong — contrary to the will of 
the Supreme Being, which is, beyond the conception of our Aveak 
and corrupt natures, pure and holy; but this perversion of 
heart, this Aveakness, this inability to obey the laws of his Cre- 
ator in all their purity, is the greatest of all griefs to a truly 
religious being. You know, my dear Catharine, Ave may be led 
by our evil passions and tempers to offend those whom A\^e most 
dearly love on earth ; we are then miserable till Ave are forgiven 
and reconciled ; so are they who supremely love their Master in 
heaven. They may be tempted to do things 'displeasing to 
him, but such deviations are followed by a wretchedness so in- 
supportable, they cannot but feel that their love for Him and 
PI is service is superior to all other attachments Avhatever.” 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


115 


Catharine remained silent and thoughtful for some moments, 
then said, “ Is that devotion of heart to the Supreme Being, the 
peculiarity which distinguishes those you told me were called 
‘ saints,’ Mrs. Oswald ? ” asked she. 

It is, my love ; and I pray heaven you may soon experi- 
ence it is, so powerfully, so delightfully, as to disregard its 
peculiarity.” ' * > 

“We must not, however, deceive Catharine, my dear aunt,” 
said Dunallan. “ The world does not give those whom they in 
ridicule call ‘ saints,’ credit for really feeling this devotion. They 
are accused of affecting only to feel it. In the world, a ‘saint’ 
and a hypocrite are synonymous terms.” ' 

Catharine recollected the character she had heard ascribed to 
Dunallan himself, and felt the truth of what he said. ' 

“That opinion, however,” said Mrs. Oswald, “has been 
rather shaken by the allowed excellence of character of some 
of the ‘ saints.’ ” - ; 

“ Yes,” replied Dunallan ; “ but, notwithstanding their unre- 
served avowal of the principles* which influence- them, these 
men are said to be naturally so well disposed, and so sensible 
and clever, that they are distinguished members of society in 
spite of the strange opinions they have adopted on religious 
subjects.” 

“I have often heard these very sentiments expressed regard- 
ing them,” said Catharine, “ and I confess I felt great contempt 
for the religious part of their character.” 

“ Have you any curiosity to know more about that peculiarity 
now, my dearest Catharine ? ” asked Dunallan. 

“ The very greatest curiosity. ^ I wish to know how they can 
so command their natural feelings, as really, in the bustle of 
active life, to be guided by that devotion of heart which you 
have described.” 

“I shall have great pleasure in attempting to explain the 
enigma to you, dearest Catharine,” said Dunallan, “ and those 
books you have promised to read will assistf me. You see I 
wish you to become a ‘ saint." You will find, however, by the 
books I have selected, that I am desirous of your complete con- 


116 


DUIS'ALLAN ; OR, 


viction. You will then, see both sides of the many arguments 
which have been employed on that most important subject, 
whether an absolute, unreserved devotion of every power of the 
mind, and every feeling of the heart, and every action of the 
life to the service of our Creator, is required by the Scriptures ; 
or Avhether the vague notions which have so little influence on 
the lives of the generality of those who profess, and suppose 
themselves to be Christians, can be all that is required. I have 
marked those passages which 1 think most forcible.” 

Catharine acknowledged her obligations to Dunallan. “ How 
much trouble you have taken,” said she, “ to lead me right in 
your absence. I shall have no excuse if I err.” 

Dunallan smiled rather sadly, I do feel most anxious, Cath- 
arine, for your happiness. You know my opinion is, that we 
cannot be so unless we are in the right path, as well in affections 
as in actions.” 

The other gentlemen now joined the party, and the conversa- 
tion became more general. Dunallan attempted to be cheerful, 
but did not entirely succeed ; and as the evening advanced, the 
sadness of the whole party increased, and the conversation 
partook of the same feeling. The sun soon set unobserved, 
from the deep interest of these last moments of intercourse. 
Catharine, however, felt the increasing darkness a relief, and 
indulged in the tears she had found difficulty in restraining, while 
Dunallan had been addressing her in a voice of such tender and 
kind solicitude, that every word had reached her inmost heart. 
A servant approached, to remind Dunallan that it was the hour 
for prayers. 

“ Why should we leave this magnificent jilace of worship ? ” 
exclaimed Walderford. “That bright rising moon will light us 
home. The air is balm : the ladies cannot suffer.” 

“ Let us remain here, then,” said Dunallan, “ if you, Catha- 
rine, have no objection.” 

“ Oh, certainly not,” replied she. 

“ You may all join us here,” said Dunallan to the servant. 
“ You, my dear aunt, must assist us with your memory,” con- 
tinued he. 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


117 


Mrs. Oswald- assented ; and when, after a time, the servants 
gathered together in a group, at a little distance, she said, “ I 
shall repeat a hymn, and all who know it will join when we 
sing.” She then repeated some verses, descriptive of the feel- 
ings of parting friends, beautifully contrasted with the peace and 
security of that state where there shall be no more parting. All 
the party excepting Catharine, and most of the servants, seemed 
to know the hymn, and joined in singing. Catharine listened, 
tis if to an illusion, so unlike was all she heard and witnessed to 
any scene at which she had ever before been present, yet so 
completely suited to the .exalted state of her feelings. An echo, 
too, from the cliffs sweetly joined, as if a spirit had been near, 
and, Avhen the hymn was closed, prolonged the sacred song in 
notes more aerial. Dunallan paused, till from cliff to cliff the 
faint sounds died away. He then repeated, in an impressive 
and solemn tone of voice, several passages of Scripture calcu- 
lated to lead the heart to its Creator, as the only soiirce from 
which it can find happiness to satisfy its vast 'desires ; and then 
rising, and uncovering his head, he implored the Divine blessing, 
and light, and protection, and peace,, for all around him, so 
earnestly and so particularly, that his prayer seemed a farewell 
to each, of the most tender and affectionate nature. When he 
had finished he offered his arm to Catharine. The party then 
proceeded slowly and silently towards the house. 

“ And this is methodism ? ” thought Catharine, as they 
walked. “This is that dull, gloomy, degrading superstition 
and hypocrisy, which I have so long joined in regarding with 
scorn and contempt.” A feeling of apprehension mingled with 
her other emotions. - “ How solemn,” thought she, “ is this 
continual recollection of God. Surely this must be true 
religion ; and if it is, what I have hitherto regarded as such 
cannot be so. But how few are thus ever mindful of the 
presence of God ? It cannot be necessary, or who is safe ? 
Those few particular people only at whom all the rest of the 
world laugh ? Impossible ! I must not be led into this narrow 
bigotry.” But Catharine could not reason away either her 
veneration for that religion which so constantly and so power- 


118 


BUNALLAN J 'Oil, 


fully influenced those with whom she now was, or her misgivings 
regarding her own. > > - ' ■■■ - ‘ 

It was late before Hhe party returned to the house; and as 
the travellers were to set off early next morning, Mrs. Oswald 
very soon proposed retiring. Dunallan followed her and Catha- 
rine out of the room. ' - 

“ My dearest aunt, I shall not see you in the morning — we 
go too early.” • - 

Mrs. Oswald embraced him in silence. She attempted to 
bless him, but the words died on her lips, and she hurried' away. 

Catharine held out her- hand to him. “ You will write very 
soon ? ” •* • y 

r ’“ How soon, dearest Catharine ? ” ■ . i r. 

“ Perhaps to-morrow, when you stop for the night, if it will 
not plague you.” , i 

“!“Yes, ah yes, I shall write to-morrow, — and you will write 
frequently to me ? ” 

> «I will, indeed.” ■ ■ • ' ' 

Dunallan’s farewell completely overcame Catharine ; it was 
so tender, .yet so solemn.- She disengaged herself from him, 
and hastening to her own apartment, she burst into a passion of 
tears. “And this is the same -Dunallan,” thought she, “ whom 
only. a week ago I dreaded as the greatest enemy to my peace.” 
She continued to weep, regardless of the presence of Martin, till, 
worn out and miserable, she a^ last consented- to go to bed, — but 
not to sleep. 


CHAPTER MX. ‘ ’ 

All the next day Catharine felt listless and miserable. She 
sought refuge in solitude from Mrs. Oswald’s composure, and, 
as she thought, unfeeling activity ; for that good lady occupied 
herself in all her usual employments. 

Catharine thought over the last six strange weeks ; and 
blamed herself severely during the retrospect. Why had she 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


119 


suffered the conviction of Dunallan’s worth, which forced itself 
upon her almost immediately on his arrival at Dunallan Castle, 
to make no impression? Why had she 'shut her eyes to the 
noble sincerity, and mild dignity of his manners, and her ears 
to the good sense, superior talent, and constantly strict prin- 
ciple which had marked his conversation ? Why had she 
suffered prejudice, and prejudice excited by those she knew 
were his enemies, to blind her to all his good, amiable, 
admirable qualities, and blind her also to her own happiness, 
to secure which she should have sought for all that was ami- 
able in the being to whom she was to look for the peace of her 
future life ? “ And now he is gone,” thought she, “ when I had 
just begun to feel that I could delight in looking to his appro- 
bation, — to his affection, as the source of all my happiness.” 
She recollected him during his residence at Dunallan Castle, — 
his polite and manly gentleness to herself on his' first arrival 
there, when she knew he had revolted at the idea of being 
united to her, — his perfect command of temper, and superiority 
in argument, and in every thing, to the arrogant, but clever 
and ingenious St. Clair, — his unmoved politeness, and even 
kindness of manner (when they would receive it), to all 
around him, while they were watching every opportunity to 
disagree with him, or to speak at, or turn into ridicule what he 
was known to respect and value. Catharine blushed' with 
shame and self-reproach,- when she recollected the species of 
persecution to which Dunallan had been subjected, and the 
patience with which he had borne it. Even his coldness to her 
father, which had seemed to increase rather than diminish, she 
could not help feeling raised himdn her opinion. “And he is 
gone,” thought she, “and perhaps for years, to engage in a 
thousand important affairs, which he undertook to avoid the 
unhappy being who was to be forced upon him as his wife; 
and his heart is now engaged in those affairs, and he 
will soon forget the last disagreeable six weeks, or remember 
them only as a dream, an unpleasant dream ! and when the 
impression of pity f6r me has worn off, ho will forget me too, 
or only think of me as a troublesome charge ; and, when he 


120 


DUNALLAN; OR, 


sees some amiable woman, whose mind is elevated and whose 
heart .is devoted to all that is good, like his own, he will then 
remember me as the insuperable, and if he could hate, hateful 
bar to his happiness.” 

Catharine could scarcely endure her own feelings, which 
increased in bitterness the longer she indulged them. She 
joined Mrs. Oswald at dinner, and felt, in some degree, recon- 
ciled to her, on observing that she betrayed some emotion at 
seeing Dunallan’s place at table empty ; but this was soon over, 
and Mrs. Oswald began to talk in her usual cheerful tone of 
voice. Catharine did not attempt to reply in the same strain. 

The children were brought after dinner, and Catharine, 
ashamed again to retire to her own room, and averse to con- 
versation, listened in silence to their prattle. They soon be- 
gan to talk of their uncle ; and their innocent and simple 
expressions of love to him overcame her. She rose and 
walked to a window ; one of the children followed, and, 
mounting on a chair near where Catharine stood, put her 
little arms softly around her neck. Catharine turned, and, 
concealing her w’-eeping face upon the child, repaid her caresses 
an hundred fold. 

“ Uncle Dunallan told us this morning, that we must often 
talk of him to you, Aunt Dunallan, and ask you not to forget 
him.” ■ [ 

Catharine kissed the child tenderly. “ This morning, Mary ? 
did you see your uncle this morning ? ” ^ 

“ Oh, yes ; Aunt Oswald made breakfast for Uncle Dunallan, 
and Lilias and I sat on his knee.” 

Catharine felt as if she had been deprived of a right ; “ had 
I known this,” said she to Mrs. Oswald, rather reproachfully. 

“Tou should have known it, dear Catharine, had I thought 
it could have given either of you pleasure to part a second 
time ; Edward knew not of my wish to see him in the morning. 
It was not a selfish wish ; it was a desire to settle some trifling, 
but to these' children, indispensable affairs, which induced me 
to choose that time, when I knew all other matters were ar- 
ranged; but it was unnecessary. Edward had not forgotten 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


121 


them ; hurried as he has been, he has forgotten nobody.” IMrs. 
Oswald then began a theme, to which Catharine could listen 
Avithout losing her interest, — the praises of Dunallan. The 
evening passed rapidly away, while Mrs. Oswald recounted 
anecdotes of his early years, and described the change of 
character which his religious principles had produced, “ for,” 
said she, “ he did not always think on these subjects as he now 
does. He was naturally the proudest of human beings ; not exactly 
from an high opinion of himself, but from an exalted idea of the 
powers and virtues of the human mind, and from the high aim 
of his own. He passed through all the early part of his educa- 
tion with the applause and love of all his masters, and the warm 
affections of his young companions. At college he distinguished 
himself by his uncommon power of uniting the character of 
the regular student, to that of the agreeable companion, and 
intimate and beloved friend of a vast number of the young men 
at college. He would then have made any exertion to obtain 
distinction. He studied half the night to gain the next j^rize, 
tlien spent ^he day with those who valued not learning, but as 
it could add by the superiority and refinement it gave to the 
pleasure of the passing hour ; yet Dunallan was so strictly pure 
in his morals, and so regular in his hours, that he was pointed 
out to his young companions as a model for their imitation, and 
so much was he beloved, that they Avillingly allowed his superi- 
ority. Among these, however, there Avas one whom Dunallan 
found to be his superior, and him he loved with all the ardor 
of his nature. He Avas a young man of fine genius, but of 
narrow fortune. He lived very retiredly at college, having feAV 
associates, and Avholly devoted to study. There was something 
in his appearance which greatly interested Dunallan, Avho 
eagerly sought his acquaintance, which with difficulty he obtained. 
Dunallan had learned that the singularity of his new friend’s 
religious opinions, Avas the cause of his love of seclusion, and in 
all the pride of reason, he flattered himself that he would easily 
convince the interesting enthusiast of the weakness and absurdity, 
of those opinions, and be the means of drawing his learning and 
fine genius into notice. He soon got his friend to state all his 
11 


122 


dunallan; or, 


opinions to him ; and they were in direct opposition to Dun- 
allan’s most favorite systems. He felt indignant at seeing so 
fine a mind acquiesce, as his friend’s did, in what he regarded 
as the prejudices of weak understandings, or of women and 
children. He found, however, that none of his arguments 
made the slightest impression on his friend : on the contrary, 
lie seemed absolutely certain of the truth of his own opinions, 
and when Dunallan became heated, and sometimes even con- 
temptuous, his friend continued perfectly calm, and even seemed 
to feel more affectionately for his proud opponent. Dunallan 
at last gave up all attempts to enlighten the enthusiast, but his 
affection for him increased every day ; and he sought his society 
in preference to that of all- others, though each tenaciously 
retained their own opinions on the subject of religion. Dun- 
allan strenuously supported the dignity, the great capacity, and 
virtuous inclinations of human nature, while his friend insisted 
on its depravity, its perversion of its powers, and its weakness 
in resisting evil. The friends parted. Dunallan, his own 
master, from the excessive indulgence of his father ;^handsom^, 
of high character for so young a man, rich, remarkably agreea«' 
ble, from his natural desire to please, was courted and caressed 
wherever he went. His friend, poor, and in delicate health, 
retired to a curacy in the west of England. For the next year 
Dunallan resided chiefly with Harcourt, his brother-in-law. He 
must have been more than man, had his morals not suffered in 
such society. At the end of that year his college friend died. 
I know no more. Dunallan soon after went abroad. When he 
returned, to soothe the last days of his unfortunate sister, he had 
adopted all his friend’s religious opinions.” 

Catharine listened with deep attention ; “ he told me,” said 
she, “ that his sentiments had been changed by 'some very dis- 
tressing cause. He hoped I would adopt his way of thinking 
without such painful means.” 

“ I hope you will, my dear. Have you been examining the 
books he left for your perusal ? ” 

‘‘ No, madam. I could not read to-day. I did not attempt 
it.” 


' KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


123 


Ah, that is the reason, my love. Had you made the attempt 
you would have succeeded.” y 

. “ I believe not,” replied Catharine, rather hurt! 

Next day, however, Catharine did make the attempt, and suc- 
ceeded in reading those parts at least which had been marked 
by Dunallan, and she became interested. The subject, was new, 
and she was naturally of an inquiring turn of mind. This day 
was less unhappy than the preceding one ; but the evening 
seemed long and sad. She thought of Dunallan’s promise to 
write, and though she scarcely hoped to receive a letter so soon, 
she waited with impatience for the post-hour. Restless, and 
unable to occupy herself, she proposed to Mrs. Oswald to walk 
out, intending to go in that direction in which she knew she 
should meet the man who brought the letters. Mrs. Oswald 
seemed to have guessed her wishes, for she immediately pror 
ceeded to that walk. ' In a short time Catharine perceived the 
man at some distance, and approaching, as she thought, at 'a 
very slow pace. She quickened hers, and soon joined him. 
After aligning composedly from his horse, and fastening the 
bridle to a tree, he undid a bag, from which he took several let- 
ters, and after carefully looking them over, presented one to 
Catharine. It was from Elizabeth ; and, for the first time in 
her life, Catharine felt disappointed on seeing a letter from 
her. ■ ■ , ; 

“ Is there no other letter for me ? ” asked she. 

“ No in this bag, my lady. I hae aniether, but Mrs. Allan, 
at the post-office, guesse wha it was frae, and I hae it better 
j')itten up.” 

‘‘Make haste, good Robin Skene, said Mrs. Oswald. Robin 
looked pleased and important, and after fumbling some time in 
his bosom, brought forth a parcel very carefully wTapt up, from 
which he presented a letter to Catharine, and one also to Mrs. 
Oswald. 

Catharine turned away, and hastily broke the seal. 

“You seemed in earnest, my dearest Catharine, when you 
permitted me to write so soon ; I should not otherwise -have yet 


124 


l^b'NAI.LAN; OR, 


ventured to remind you of your absent friend. You see how 
easily I shall persuade myself you are sincere, whenever you 
express wishes so gratifying to me, and try to forget the many 
times you have checked my slightest encroachment in my char- 
acter of a relation with whom you were still unacquainted. I 
have been hurrying from Arnmore all this day;, but my heart 
and my imagination are still there ; and now at this late hour 

— alone at the little inn of my fancy is still busy at 

Arnmore. I see the party assembled to close the day, by study- 
ing the pure precepts, and animating j)romises of Scripture. 
My aunt, or perhaps my dear Catharine herself, is reading to 
her domestics in the absence of her banished, and at this mo- 
ment very sad friend. Oh, how I have longed all this day to 
return to my beloved home ! But adieu to such fruitless wishes: 
and now let me begin my correspondence with you, my dearest 
Catharine, in the character you have wished me, to assume. 
You have asked me to be your instructor in those singular 
opinions which lead to those singular ways which you have 
witnessed at Arnmore. You do not know what Measure this 
request gave me. It is permitting me to attempt the only thing 
by which I may perhaps be enabled to atone for what I have 
done regarding you, and that will be, by freely pointing out those 
truths to you, without which I firmly believe you could not have 
enjoyed true happiness in any situation, and the knowledge of 
which is not dearly purchased, even by very great earthly dis- 
appointments or sorrows. Have you begun to read any of my 
books ? Do you think the village or the schools will interest 
you? Remember your promise to give them all up if they 
do not, at least if you think you ought, when you recollect the 
situation in which you have been placed. Do not suppose I 
mean to dictate to you, however, my dearest Catharine ; but, 
believing as I do, that our happiness, even in tliis world, depends 
upon our being in the path of duty, can I love you, and not 
seek by every means in my power to lead you into the path of 
true enjoyment? You would believe how sincerely I desire this, 
if you knew how dear you are, how dear you were to me be- 


KNO\7 WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


125 


fore you had ever bestowed a look upon me, hut of aversion 
and disgust. But, adieu, I must not in my first letter tire you 
of your preaching, but most truly attached, ‘ 

E. II. Dun ALL AN.” 

• Catharine had read Dunallan’s letter several times before 
she recollected that there was any other being in existence. 
Mrs. Oswald interrupted her thoughts by a- request to return to 
the house, to avoid the very heavy dew. Catharine kindly 
offered her arm to Mrs. Oswald. 

“ You, too, have a letter, my dear madam.” 

“ Yes, my love, a few lines,” replied Mrs. Oswald, holding 
out the letter to her. 

Catharine declined reading it. “ You must not think me so 
curious, my dear Mrs. Oswald, I shall be most happy to 
hear whatever you choose from Mr. Dunallan’s letters, but 
I wish you always to read those passages to me yourself. 
I shall now read a part of mine to you, which I want 
your opinion of.” She then read that passage, in which 
Dunallan supposed she had taken his place in reading to the 
servants. 

Mrs. Oswald smiled. “ This is rather cunning, I think.” 

“ I think so too,” replied Catharine, “ but should like if you, 
my dearest Mrs. Oswald, would do as he wishes.” 

“ Not I, indeed,” replied Mrs. Oswald. “ He very properly 
wishes you, my love, to act in his absence as the head of his 
family; but you must consider, that if you begin this good 
custom, you ihust caiTy it on. Should you suffer the fear of 
ridicule to make you give it up when people are here, you 
would, I fear, do more harm than reading at other times would 
do good.” > ■ 

“ I do not think the dread of ridicule would deter me from 
doing any thing I thought right,” said Catharine. “ I have 
never stood much in awe of the opinions of others.” 

Mrs. Oswald smiled. “ Then, my dear, you have only to 
determine whether Dunallan’s is a right wish.” 

11 * 


DUNALLAN; OR, 


,i2() 

“ I can have no doubt of that,” replied Catharine, “ since it is 
hk” ' • , , • • ' : r . 

“ Ah ! you ought to have a better reason, my dear.” ' 

‘‘ Wcjll, it must be right to instruct the ignorant.” 

“ Yes, my love, and to see that those under our care, which 
servants certainly are, have at least an opportunity of hearing 
the divine truths of revelation. We are all. commanded to do 
good to all as w.e have opportunity .; surely our influence cannot 
be so great anywhere as in ,our own houses.” 

“ Well, my dear madam, this is settled ; and to-morrow you 
shall take me to the village, and to the schools. I must be 
able to answer Mr. Dunallan’S questions ; but you must direct 
me in every thing, my dear Mrs. Oswald, for how can .1, so 
ignorant myself, attempt to instruct others ? I know not what 
parts of Scripture are proper to be read to^ servants.” 

“There, are few parts which can be improper, my love,” re- 
plied Mrs. Oswald. “ You will soon, while informing yourself, 
discover what is most instructive for others. Happily for the 
lower classes, which constitute the largest portion of society, it 
is the humble and unlearned who are. chiefly 'addressed in Scrip- 
ture.” 

Catharine desired that she might be called very early next 
morning. Her ;ardent mind was now bent on attempting every 
thing recommei^ded by Dunallan. She 'felt convinced that all 
his wishes -were for her real happiness ; and she took pleasure 
in the idea, that in his absence she might fit herself to be the 
companion of this este'emed friend. 

■Elizabeth’s letter, though left unread, for the first time in her 
life, till she perused that of another, -gave, Catharine the great- 
est pleasure. • It w'as written in unusually high spirits for Eliz- 
abeth ; and, after many playfully kind remarks on the change 
of feelings with regard to Dunallan, expressed in Catharine’s 
letter, on her arrival at Arnmore, concluded thus: 

“ And now., my own Catharine, I must tell you a secret, the 
only secret I ever concealed from my first and dearest friend. 
You have often laaghed at my high-flown notions (as you called 
them), of the influence of real aflection. Know, then, that I 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGP:. 


127 


spoke from experience, and that your friend has been engaged 
in heart and promise for two years, to a person whose name I 
believe never escaped her lips in your hearing. You will natu- 
rally ask. Why ? I answer, because I could only have given 
you pain by the disclosure, as we were far too poor to think of 
marrying for years. Mr. Melville is the younger son of a fam- 
ily of very moderate fortune ; he is a lawyer, and very clever ; 
but for some years at the commencement of his profession, a 
lawyer very rarely makes any thing. You know I had no for- 
tune, and you will, I am yery certain, feel almost as happy as 
your friend, when you find that your father’s generosity to his 
nephews and nieces has removed every obstacle that stood in 
the way of my happiness ; and that I so dearly love those who 
haye thus obliged me, that I love even to be under obligation. 
But I must now introduce you to my dear and disinterested 
Philip MelviUe, who in a time of such scarcity of men, and of 
such men ! and a time of such plenty of heiresses, chose to 
place his affections on your portionless, and every- way very 
moderately gifted Elizabeth. But you are unacquainted with 
Melville, and cannot judge of my feelings in the idea of never 
being separated from him. The sweet castles I build when I 
picture myself his Avife, welcoming him, after the studies or 
business of the day, to his comfortable (and I mean it to be), 
elegant, though moderate home ; exerting all my powers to 
amuse and please him, which you know must always succeed ; 
his conversation and affection ; and his approbation of all I do 
— my mother so happy in seeing me so — my young brothers 
guided by Melville, whom they already regard with love and 
esteem — the holy days passed at Arnmore, and the dear inhab- 
itants of Arnmore coming to us sometimes. Dear Catharine, 
are Yot my dreams very happy, and not so romantic as to be 
impossible ? ” 

Elizabeth’s letter was long, and expressed great enjoyment. 
Catharine entered warmly into her feelings, and for a time for- 
got every thing else. Her last occupation before she retired to 
rest, however, wms another; perusal of Dunallan’s letter. “Ah!” 
thought she, when she had finished it, “ you have given me a 


128 


DUNALLAN ; OH, 


rival in your alfections, Elizabeth, and perhaps you soon will 
have one in mine ! ” 


CHAPTER X. 

Next morning Catharine started from her pillow the moment 
she was called, and dressed- with a rapidity which seemed not a 
little to surprise Martin, whom, when her toilet was finished, she 
desired to inform Mrs. Scott, the housekeeper, tliat she wished 
the servants to be assembled at the usual hour in the library. 
She then set herself to read the book which Dunallan had 
pointed out as the most proper to begin with, steadily determin- 
ing, that however tiresome she should find the occupation, to 
read every thing he had recommended with her whole attention. 
But this book she found most interesting. It was addressed to 
the heart as well as to the .understanding. ‘; The subject Avas, 
the erroneous and unscriptural nature of the opinions on 
religious subjects generally prevalent among jieople in the 
higher classes of society. Catharine, as she read, felt the truth 
of every word, and she could scarcely believe that she had been 
thus employed for more than an hour, when Martin appeared, 
to say that Mrs. Oswald and the servants were in the library. 
Catharine felt humbler when she entered the room where they 
were assembled than she had ever done in her life before. She 
felt conscious that she now assumed a character to which she 
had no title", and blushing before she began to read, she said, 
“ I continue this custom because Mr. Dunallan wishes it. I 
hope we all shall derive benefit and instruction. None of you 
can require it more than I do.” • 

Mrs. Scott was on all occasions easily moved to tears ; her 
softness on Catharine’s saying this, infected the other maids, so 
that her young lady had a weeping audience. Catharine 
thought their grief was occasioned by their master’s absence, 
and by seeing ‘his place filled by another. When she had 
finished, and die servants were retiring, wiping their eyes, she 


KNOW^WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


129 


desired Mrs. Scott io remain a little. ‘‘ You must not grieve sb 
much, my good Mrs. Scott,’^ said she, “at Mr. Dunallan’s ab- 
sence. Do you know we had letters from him last night, and 
heis well?” \ : ' ; . ■ uir xn 

“ Oh ! ” replied Mrs. Scott, almost sobbing, “ I mourn indeed 
for Mr. Dunallan’s absence, but it is not grief, but joy which 
mak6s me cry now. j:I just thought I saw my own dear lady 
again, when you, ma’am, sat down in the chair. She used to 
look concerned, as you did, ma’am, but, oh ! she had great cause. 
Her Mr. Dunallan favored nothing i good, though he loved her 
I so much he could not cross her ; but the servants used' to as- 
semble here, and she used to read to them, when he was" gone a 
hunting ; and at night ibefore he and his gentlemen friends bad 
left the dining-room. Oh ! I never thought I should see this, 
happy day ! Her son walking in her blessed steps; and you, 
ma’am, brought up so differently oli lot 'is more than I can 
stand,” and she put her hands to her face, and hurried out of 
room. 'Catharine) was affected : /^ipoor good IMi’s. Scott I • = sh'e 
does not know how little I deserve to be compared to any^one 
so good.” , . ■ I 

' So great was Catharine’s impatience to see all those places 
and arrangements wliich Dunallan had committed to her care, 
that she thought that Mrs. Oswald would never have done with 
her breakfast. At last she rose, and offered to accompany her 
young friend wherever she chose. They proceeded first to the 
village. It, was still early. Catharine, however, was much 
pleased ‘with the clean and orderly appearance of the cottages 
into which she was conducted by Mrs. Oswald, and at the pleasure 
which the people seemed to feel on seeing her.. After having 
led Catharine through the village, and visiting various institu- 
tions of Dunallan’s, for the benefit of the people and children, 
schools, a library, etc., all which were under the immediate care 
of the clergyman of the parish, who was to report, the progress 
and success of each to Catharine, Mrs. Oswald led'' her .^to 
another school for girls. Catharine was delighted with the situ- 
ation of this, school. It was apart from the village, in a romantic 
spot on the banks of the lake, and surrounded by wood on every 


130 


dunallan; or, 


side except that which opened on the water. A sweet retired 
path lay directly between it and the castle. 

“ This situation,” said Mrs. Oswald, “ was chosen by Dun- 
allan, in the hope that, whoever the lady of Arnmore might be, 
she would take this institution under her own peculiar and 
watchful care. I hope you will fulfil his wishes, my dear Cath- 
arine ; regard these interesting young villagers as in some degree 
your own children. The general rules only have been acted 
upon, all particular regulations have been left for you, my 
dear,” continued Mrs. Oswald. “ I have found the charge very 
interesting, but will be most happy to relinquish it to your care ; 
my health and my age make me unfit for it.” 

Catharine was equally delighted wfith the interior of the 
school-house, and the healthy, happy looks of the children, who 
rose respectfully on her entrance, and answered the questions 
she put to them with intelligence and civility, dropping a grateful 
courtesy when she noticed them. Catharine recollected the 
children at Dunallan Castle, laying about their cottage doors in 
complete idleness, or running away to conceal themselves at her 
approach, or if bold enough to remain, answering with awkward 
shyness any thing she said to them. But, thought she, they 
were only taught to regard me as their superior, not their 
friend and benefactress. She could have staid here the whole 
day, she became so greatly interested. She liked to hear the 
children repeat hymns, and parts of Scripture, and was delighted 
with their eager desire to be permitted to repeat them to her ; 
and the pleasure their countenances expressed when she praised 
their performances. Mrs. Oswald at last reminded her that the 
forenoon was far spent. 

“ Every child at Arnmore is taught to read,” said Mrs. Oswald, 
as they returned home, “ and the clergyman of the parish attends 
with the most unremitting attention to their religious instructions. 
He is an excellent man, and is looked up to by the whole parish. 
You will find him anxious to second any plan you propose for 
the benefit of your people.” 

‘‘ How many people are supposed to reside on Mr. Dunallan’s 
estate ? ” asked Catharine. 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


131 


“ About nine hundred, including a small fishing town, at too 
great a distance for us to visit to-day; but which Dunallan 
takes the same charge of that he does of those places you have 
seen.” 

“ Happy Arnmore ! ” exclaimed Catharine. “ Poor Dunallan 
Castle ! how much I ought to feel ashamed when I recollect how 
its people have been neglected. And now my father is enlarg- 
ing all his faians, and the poorer tenants are emigrating to 
America, or wherever they can go. Had I known that it* was 
possible, or rather had I taken the trouble to consider, I might 
have had at Dunallan Castle such a village as that I have just 
seen. The money which I gave without reflection to the un- 
fortunate who were leaving the estate, and whose grief I could 
not bear to witness, would have defrayed every expense : but I 
shall write to my father immediately. How happy should I be 
to see him interested in such a plan.” 

Catharine was so busy all this day, she felt quite fatigued 
when she retired for the night ; yet her heart was light and gay. 

She had written to her father, to Elizabeth, and to Dunallan. 
The two first she had sealed up ; but the last she left to peruse 
once more. She was dissatisfied with what she had written. It 
was too long — Dunallan’s was not half so long — yet she had 
so much to say — she read sentence by sentence, and determined 
to change each ; but after these changes were made, she thought 
her letter stifi* and cold, and at last decided to send that M'hich 
she had first written. 

Next day she visited the fishing town, and other more distant 
parts of the estate, and was extremely gratified by all she saw, 
the reception she met with everywhere, and by the beautiful 
scenery through which they had passed ; for many of the 
cottages they had visited were far too distant for Mrs. Oswald, 
or even Catharine to have walked to them. 

“ And what am I to do?” asked Catharine, as they returned 
home ; “ in what way, my dear Mrs. Oswald, am I to make 
myself useful to all these people ? ” 

“ By knowing about them all, my dear Catharine, and by 
convincing them that you do, and that you take an interest in 


DUN ALL an; OE, 


fl32 

th^ir real happiness and prosperity ; by your steadily discoiiiv 
tenancing , the unworthy^ and approving of and assisting the 
good; by promoting the education of the children — oh, by a 
thousand ways, my dear young friend, particularly by carrying 
on thos^ plans, begun by Dunallan, which are yet too new to 
succeed;,; unless they are fostered and protected by you.” 

. Catharine after consulting with Mrs. Oswiald, laid down rules 
for .to occupation of her time^ which she resolved to abide by 
until jDunallan’s return. “For I shall not leave Arnmore till 
then,” 'said she; “and whoever visits me, must allow me to 
sp^nd some of my time as I choose.” 

„.|rOne; w^ek passed away, and she kept strictly to all her rules, 
and felt interested and happy. Mrs. Oswald she loved more 
dearly every day — -she appeared to her , almost peidect, and her 
affeption was returned with interest. 

“ Ah, Catharine ! ” said Mrs. Oswald one day, after an inter- 
esting conversation with her young friend, “ I feel I am making 
anothei: idol of you. I shall never learn to love with modera- 
tion.” . . 

The children, too, were regarded by Catharine with the ten- 
derest ajfection ; and, she felt the' purest enjoyment in leading 
their young and opening minds to the admiration of all that was 
good and beautifuL 

She had another letter from Dunallan diu'ing this week, — all 
that was kind. To hll’s.. Oswald he described his situation in 
London and his future intentions. He expected to set out on 
Ills d^tination in a; few days. . . To Catharine, he wrote of her- 
self, and his own feelings. , , 

“Your letter,' my dearest Catharine, has almost relieved my 
mind from a load, which has oppressed it ever since my unhappy 
arrival af your father’s house. You request me so kindly, and 
I cannot help feeling so sincerely, to believe you, when you say 
you are happy ; — you add so sweetly, that you wish me to for- 
get the past, as you are beginning to do, that I feel satisfied you 
are at least not unhappy. The future, I will. allow myself to 
hope, will produce for you far brighter days. You say you 
have read- one of my books, and are interested in our people. 


KNOW WHAT TOU JUDGE. 


133 


Dearest Catharine, I entreat you, in your ardor to do good, 
•not to forget your own health. You have undertaken too much. 
I shall regret having requested you to superintend my plans, if 
you expose yourself to fatigue,, which, I assure you j is unnec- 
essary. It is surprismg how much influence a very small 
degree of interest, expressed by a person in your situation, has 
on your dependents. But I shall say no more on this subject ; 
you know, my dear Catharine, how much it would pain me to 
think that I, in seeking a source of pleasure for you, had loaded 
you with fatiguing occupations. 

“You say, my dearest Catharine, that my aunt has made 
you forget my absence, by talking to you of my early days. She 
will, I fear, deceive you. She will praise me, when, if you knew 
what a proud and arrogant being I then was, and ‘ the course of 
.sin,’ which levelled me with the dust, you would cease to regard 
me' with the unmixed esteem expressed in your sweetly frank 
letter.. AYill you be undeceived, iny dearest Catharine? You 
asked me once, how the human mind could be brought, in the 
bustle of life, to be constantly guided by the principles of relig- 
ion. I promised to explain this in my letters ,to you, so far as 
I could. The truth is, that, to a mind awakened from the delu- 
sive dreams of the world, religion becomes not only the support 
, and .consolation, but the source of its chief pleasures. I shall 
tell you in my next letter,. how far I have experienced this 
myself; but the story is long, and I am too impatient for your 
reply to delay my letter till another post. You perceive, my 
Cath^ine, that it is painful to me to appear to you what I really 
am not. Your character is, I think, easily known ; and there- 
fore, in my eyes, the more amiable. Men, from their intercourse 
with a world, where most of those they meet with are inditfer- 
ent about them — where some wish to deceive, and others to 
lead astray — acquire a power of concealing their emotions, 
which ’gives them an unfair advantage over women, who rarely 
in early life can conceal theirs. I should’ wish you, my Catha- 
rine, to feel certain that I have not this advantage over you. 
The very suspicion of it must produce a degree of reserve, 
which it is the wish of my heart to do away. I am thus anxious 

12 


134 


DL'NALLAN; OR, 


to inspire you with confidence in me, because I so earnestly 
wish you to feel that friendship for me which I already feel for 
you, and which cannot exist where we have any doubt of our 
knowledge of the real character.” ^ • 

“ And now, my dearest of friends, I shall answer the last 
part of your letter, in which you so ingenuously confess to me, 
"that you cannot say you like the first book I recommended to 
you, because every page of it condemns you. Your thoughts 
— your wishes — your time — your influence — your fortune, 
have all been employed in those pursuits considered by this 
writer as unworthy of a rational and immortal being : ‘ and yet,’ 
you add, ‘ my life has been as little shaded by great faults, as 
most others.’ You nobly say, you will not affect a modesty in 
speaking of yourself which you do not feel, when the subject 
is one on which you really wish to gain information ; and <you 
tiaturally ask if we must look on the greatest part of our fellow- 
creatures- ias guilty in the sight of heaven, when most of them 
feel so secure of being accepted there at last I acknowledge 
the difficulty of answering your question ; but it is equivalent 
to that* which was proposed long ago : ‘ Are there few that be 
saved?’ r You, I dare say, remember the instructive answer of 
Him who said, ‘ I am Truth.’ The answer was, ‘ Enter ye in 
at the straight gate ; for narrow is the way which leadeth to 
everlasting life, and few there be that find it.’ Though my book 
does condemn you, my dearest Catharine, I must agree with it, 
because I am sure it is not stricter in what it requires, than that 
short but comprehensive law, which demands that we shall love 
our Creator with all our hearts, and our souls, and our minds, 
and our neighbors as ourselves. I entreat you, Catharine, to 
use your own excellent powers of mind to follow out the mean- 
ing of those words, and you must be convinced that my book 
cannot possibly require more. Will you be displeased if I say, 
that I take pleasure in your. feeling of self-condemnation ? I do 
indeed, my sweet friend, because I know that, ‘ the whole,’ do 
not feel their need of the ‘ Physician,’ but the ‘ sick,^ and I ‘wish 
you to know the Physician of souls. I entreat you to read ‘on, 
and become acquainted with the Christian system. If you feel 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


135 


your heart become advocate for its truth, before your mind is 
informed, and your reason convinced, which, I think, from your 
last letter, may be the case, I entreat you not to cease reading 
what is addressed chiefly to your reason ; because an uninformed 
Christian in your rank of life, is exposed to having his belief 
staggered very frequently, from his ignorance of those perfectly 
convincing answers which have been given to the attacks of in- 
fidels, who have in all ages attempted in vain to subvert a relig- 
ion so strict in its demands, and pure in its precepts ; among 
those infidels there have been, and still are, men of at least very 
great wit. and ingenuity. What a letter I have written ! but if 
you' knew the pleasure I feel after the business and bustle of the 
day, in retiring to think of and address you, I know you would 
not wish to shorten this sweetest of enjoyments. Adieu, my 
dear, my very dearest friend. > 

. . ; “E. H. Dunaluan.” . 

Catharine studied every word of Dunallan’s letter with the 
deepest interest ; his wishes with regard to herself she scarcely 
understood ; but she determined to read attentively every book 
he recommended to her, and frankly avow to him the impression 
they made on her mind. His extreme openness with regard to 
himself, had fully the effect he desired in gaining her confidence. 
She felt ready to impart to him the most secret thoughts of her 
heart. This desire to make her acquainted with his very errors, 
rather than that she should form a false and too high opinion of 
him, though it gratified, yet startled, hei*. She had often been 
advised by her father, to avoid seeking to know the preceding 
private* life of the man she married. “ Let me, my dear child, 
he would say, “ be intrusted with making all necessary inquiries 
respecting his character. You cannot be a judge. - An inno- 
cent, Avell-educated young woman would never marry if she 
knew the private history of most of the young men she sees , 
but we must take the world as we find it,” he would add, 
laughing. “The noblest characters have defects. An amiable, 
sweet-tempered, sensible, affectionate wife will cure a man of 
all those youthful errors ; but a prying, over-correct wife is the 


136 


DUNA.LLAN; OK, 


devil.” Catharine believed her father, and looked on young 
men as privileged to be wicked to a certain degree : and re- 
garded it as indehcate, and disgustingly over-correct in her 
sex, to take any concern how a young man spent his life in pri- 
vate, provided he always acted honorably, and as others did in 
society. Had Dunallan, then, been particularly faulty ? She 
could not believe this, because her father had assured her, that 
even she might be satisfied with all he could learn respecting 
the morality of his early years, which had been singularly spot- 
less. Catharine replied with perfect frankness to this part of 
Dunallan’s letter. She showed how much she valued his con- 
fidence^ but that she rather shrunk from the proof of , it, which 
he offered to give ; yet she wished to know about this college 
friend, and also the nature of the change which had taken place 
in his own mind. “ But do not, dear friend,” she wrote^ “ grat- 
ify my curiosity, if doing so can recall one painful circumstance.” 


CHAPTER XI. 

Catharine’s life, for the first fortnight after Dunallan’s de- 
parture, was wholly devoted to those pursuits she had begun at 
his request; and every day, as her information increased, and 
her conversations with Mrs. Oswald made her more acquainted 
with the opinions and sentiments considered, by that lady and 
Dunallan, necessary to constitute, the character of a real Chris- 
tian, she became more convinced that they were right. To 
Mrs. Oswald she confided every difficulty and doubt of her 
own mind ; while, according to Dunallan’s wish, she persevered 
in making herself acquainted with what he esteemed the Chris- 
tian system ; and in Mrs. Oswald she found the tenderness of a 
mother united to the sincerity of a friend, equally capable from 
natural talent, information, and experience, to assist and en- 
lighten her young, but strong and candid mind. Cathai'ine felt 
Dunallan’s absence ; she also thought with pain of the solitary 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


137 


situation of her father, yet she was now so constantly occupied, 
and pleased and interested, that she dreaded any interruption 
to her new pursuits, and felt quite annoyed on being informed, 
one forenoon, on her return from visiting her school, tfiat a lady 
had just arrived. Catharine did not inquire who the lady was, 
but hurrying to her room, gave way to the impatience of the 
moment.; .Some of our troublesome country neighbors at last, 
thought she, what a plague ! she rung for Martin. . 

“( What lady is here, Martin?” , : 

“ Mrs. Williams, ma’anj/’ • r 

“ Mrs. Williams ! Ah, I rejoice to hear it.” 

“ She is indeed a very sweet-looking lady, ma’am. Mrs. 
Oswald sent for me to ask where you were, ma’am. She 
wished me to go for you, but Mrs. Williams would not suffer 
you ‘to be interrupted.” 

Catharine felt herself half afraid, yet longed to see this Mrs. 
Williams, so much esteemed by Dunallan. An apprehension 
of inferiority was, however, still painful to Catharine ; and 
though she struggled against this proud feeling, yet her raised 
head, and half-cold expression as she entered the room where 
Mrs. Williams was, gave an air of formal politeness to her 
address, rather than the real pleasure she felt at meeting her. 
Mrs. Williams’ manner was very mild, and perfectly easy. 

“ We^ have been talking of you, my dear Catharine,” said 
Mrs. Oswald. . • 

Catharine blushed; Then I regret having interrupted your 
conversation,” replied .she, “ for I am very sensible of the ad- 
vantage of a favorable impression having been given before 
acquaintance commences.” j» .’i ' ] ^ ^ . 

“ And are you so certain,; Catharine, of my giving a favor- 
able impression of you ^ ! 

“I believe so.” '/j vu-. 

Mrs. Williams smiled, but said i nothing. There was some- 
thing in her appearance that at once excited both respect and 
interest. , She was handsome, as far as a graceful figiire, very 
fine eyes, and* a charming smile could make one so ; an air of 
thoughtfulness, and the very smile, which, engaging as it was, 

■ . * 


138 


DUNALLAN ; OR, 


seemed more for politeness than feeling, conveyed an idea of 
superiority to trifles, and to trifling compliments, which was the 
rather pleasing, because the whole turn of her expressive coun- 
tenance bore the same elevated character. “ Mrs. Oswald has 
told me how you were employed. Miss Dunallan,” said she ; 
“ and that you feel yourself interested in such occupations.” 

“ I do indeed ; and hope I shall continue to feel myself so.” 

“ Oh no ; do not expect that,” replied Mrs. Williams ; “ you 
must prepare yourself for disappointment, that when you meet 
with it, you may not be disgusted, and tempted to give up all 
your useful employments. I have often been on the verge of 
doing so.” 

“I might very easily be tempted to do so,” replied Catha- 
rine, “ for I am not very patient ; but I did not undertake 
these occupations from any expectation of pleasure or amlise- 
ment, or even interest. Mr. Dunallan taught me to regard 
them as a duty, and I still expect I shall have to struggle with 
my natural aversion to the restraint of regular employment: 
hitherto, however, I have found myself more interested than I 
imagined I should be ; more, indeed, than I ever was before in 
any pursuit; because the end at which I wish to aim is so 
much nobler.” 

“True,” replied Mrs. Williams, looking much pleased; 
“but still I cannot help fearing you may find many things 
both disappointing and provoking in your endeavors to im- 
prove your people ; the parents of the cliildren even, are such 
impediments to their improvement, that at times one feels quite 
discouraged.” ' 

“ Mrs. Oswald had prepared me so well to expect that,” said 
Catharine, “that I have been surprised at my success. I have 
made many new rules, to every one of which the parents of my 
children have acceded without any difficulty.” 

“ Really ? ” said Mrs. Williams, smiling, “ you must have 
some secret way of charming, them to 'do your pleasure.” 

Catluirine described all she had done in the most animated 
language ; and so deeply was she occupied in conversing on 
such subjects, that time passed away unobserved. Mrs. 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


139 


Oswald and Mrs. Williams became equally interested, and when, 
after a very long conversation, , the latter rose to take leave, 
Catharine found she still had so much to inquire about, and 
to say, that she earnestly and affectionately pressed her to 
remain until the next day. Mrs. Williams, who, Catha- 
rine felt returned the interest slie. excited, was easily per- 
suaded to comply witii a request urged so evidently from the 
heart. 

Catharine found Mrs. Williams’s society singularly pleasing. 
She seemed to guess what subjects would be most interesting, 
and continued to turn the conversation constantly to them, 
while her evident feeling of interest, and her confiding manner 
to Catharine, completely succeeded in gaining her confidence. 
Mrs. Williams talked of ■I)unallan, and of his singular opinions, 
which she avowed were also her own. She spoke of him with 
merer than esteem, with the deepest gratitude, and explained 
its cause. He had been the friend of her husband, and had 
watclied him in his last illness with the tenderness of a brother ; 
he had been the means of making his death-bed. a scene of 
peace and triumph. He had been her own friend, when left a 
widow and wretched. He was the guardian of her children, 
and such a guardian ! 

Catharine listened with delight to the j)raises of Dunallan, 
and Mrs. AVilliams, though unable from emotion, at times to 
proceed, seemed determined to make her acquainted with her 
husband’s and her own obligations to him, and with that un- 
wearied and tenderly benevolent part of his character which 
her misfoi-tunes had brought to her knowledge. Catharine 
we})t with her,, and Mrs. Williams’s countenance brightened 
through her tears when she saw the impression her story had 
made. 

Next morning Mrs. Williams took leave, after receiving the 
willing promise of an early visit from Catharine. 

jMany of the neigh])oring families had now called at Am- 
mo re ; but though Catharine saw that -they easily would have 
been prevailed on to lengthen their visits, none of them except 
Mrs. Williams had so far interested or pleased her as to inspire 
a wish that they should. 


140 


DUNALLAN ; OR. 


One evening a party arrived whom Catharine was not a 
little surprised to see. Mrs. St. Clair and her son. She 
could not conceive why the latter should choose so ' soon to 
visit her after what had passed, and particularly in Dunallan’s 
absence. She felt displeased, and received him with extreme 
coldness. • Mrs. St. Clair she attempted to meet as an old friend, 
but did not succeed ; and she often wished, as the evening 
passed heavily on, that she had invited some of her morning 
visitors to remain. <• 

. St. Clair attempted to appear cheerful. He told Catharine 
that he was just going abroad, and that he could not prevail on 
himself to leave the country, perhaps for years, without once 
again seeing one of his earliest friends. Catharine only bowed. 
An angry glow crossed St. Clair’s brow, but he said nothing. 
Catharine had known him from her childhood, however, and 
was well acquainted with the expression of his countenance. 
She soon perceived that he was narrowly scanning hers, and 
was aware that he had now come to discover whether she was 
as unhappy as she knew His late disappointment from her made 
him wish her to be. His mother, she had no doubt, partook of 
her son’s feelings. 

Catharine expected a letter from Dunallan tliis evening ; she 
almost wished it might not arrive; and she shrunk, as the hour 
of prayers approached, from the idea of the ridicule which her 
care 'of her servants would excite in the minds of Mrs. St. 
Clair and her son. . The usual post hour, however, passed, and 
no letter arrived from Dunallan. Catharine felt relieved, but 
disappointed and her endeavors to converse cheerfully with 
her guests, which had hitherto succeeded only in-part, now gave 
place to absent thoughtfulness. Mrs. Oswald attempted to 
supply lier place, but all she said was received with such uncivil 
coldness, that, after several good-natured, but fruitless en- 
deavors, to overcome the prejudice and dislike with which 
Mrs. St. Clair seemed to regard her, she gave up the attempt, 
and turned to Catharine : 

“Our messenger has probably been detained to-night, my 
dear,” said she, observing the sadness which now began to steal 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


141 


over the expressive countenance of her young friend ; ‘^you 
know he often is. We shall have our letters to-morrOw' morn- 
ing.” . :! .i- V 

“ I only hoped for letters, I did not quite expect them tb-night; 
my dear madam,” answered Catharine, smiling sweetly in reply 
to the tenderly affectionate manner of Mrs. Oswald’s address, 
so unlike that of her proud anff gloomy guest. A pause in the 
conversation ensued. St. Clair looked earnestly at Catharine, 
as if to read in her countenance from whence she expected those 
longed for letters. ' ■' 

“I hear your frienff > Elizabeth is just* going to be married to 
one of the young Melvilles,” said Mrs. St. Clair, “ I suppose you 
hear frequently from her on the eve of such an event.” ' 

“ Very frequently,” replied Catharine; but she did not pur- 
sue this subject, for Mrs. St. Clair had always seemed to dislike 
Elizabeth. ^ ^ 

Another pause followed, and of such long continuance, that 
Catharine at last, scarcely knowing what she said,^ asked St. 
Clair if he had been acquainted with Mr. Walderford at college. 

“ I was,” replied he ; “ he was then supposed to possess very 
superior talents, and great expectations were formed respecting 
him, until he chose to adopt a set of enthusiastic notions, which 
now, I believe, I must not mention with disrespect in your 
presence, Catharine — Mrs. Dunallan, I mean: pardon me.” 
He did seem to revolt at the new appellation. L must confess,' 
however,” continued he, ‘‘ that I have rather avoided Walder- 
ford since he became so singular.” 

“ Did you value his acquaintance before that time ? ” asked 

Catharine. ^ ^ 

“ Dxtremely ; every one did. He had the clearest head bt 
any young man at the university, and the quickest penetration 
into character, with the most kind and affectionate of hearts, 
joined to an uncommon share of humor and talent for society, 
notwithstanding his natural reserve, p: very one loved ' and re- 
spected him. ' Poor Walderford ! ” continued St. Clair, “ it was 
most unlike his knowledge of mankind, and his usual' gobd 
sense, to make known his adoption of such opinions; he might' 
at least have confined them to his own breast.” 


142 


dunallan; or, 


But can such opinions be concealed, my dear sir ? ” asked 
Mrs. Oswald, in her quick way. 

“ Why not, madam ? are we not forced at times to confine far 

more powerful ” St. Clair hesitated, “we must learn to 

I i know men who have singular opinions on many sub- 
jects,” continued he, recovering himself, “ who never talk of 
tliem but in confidence. I have notions myself on that very 
subject, religion,, which are perhaps quite as singular, though 
very different from Walderford’s ; but why shock people by 
constantly avowing our heresies from common opinion ? I 
believe,” continued St. Clair, “ every man who thinks at all 
must form some opinion on that subject ; but as those opinions 
are of importance only to himself, I think he is mad if he ex- 
poses himself to universal ridicule and contempt, by attaching 
such importance to a sef of dogmas, and acting upon them with 
the blind zeal and self-satisfaction which seem to inspire poor 
Waiderford.” . 

“ But what is there in those opinions which really ought to 
shock any one ? ” asked Catharine. “ You said, Mr. St. Clair, 
that to me you must not now mention them with disrespect ; I 
suppose from their similarity to those ascribed to Mr. Dunallan. 
I confess it does pain me to hear tliem mentioned with disre- 
spect ; and allow me to add, that I am sure, if you were really 
acquainted with those opinions, and still more with their effects 
on those who adopt them, you would speak of them in gentler 
terms.” 

“ They are opinions very shocking to common sense at least,” 
said Mrs. St. Clair. “ Mr. AYalderford’s opinions, I mean.” 

“ I beg pardon,” said young St. Clair, “ for having used such 
harsh expressions. . I have little knowledge of Mr. Dunallan’s 
notions on any subject ; but the o])inions I mean, tliough they 
are gaining ground in society, or, at least, are acquiring au 
ascendency over a certairs class of minds, shrink from the ex- 
aminations of reason and philosophy.” 

“ I believe,” said Mrs. Oswald, mildly, “ that it is an allowed 
maxim among philosophers, that the supporters of any system 
ought to be permitted to state their own opinions. Now, in this 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


143 


case, you must allow me at least to correct your statement, Mr. 
St. Clair. The advcca-^^es for the opinions you have mentioned 
do not shrink fi'om the tribunals of reason and philosophy, from 
a dread of their award ; but they say that reason or philosophy 
are of no value until they are enlightened by that revelation, 
which declares the natural reason and wisdom of man to be 
foolishness, and his philosophy vanity. The supporters of those 
opinions therefore regard reason, when it discards revelation as 
its guide, as an ignis fatuus, a light that leads astray ; and phi- 
losophy as an unmeaning, though imposing word.” 

“ You are rightj madam,” replied St. Clair, warmly, “ I did 
state the case unfairly ; those opinions do set reason and philoso- 
phy at defiance ; and the weakest blockhead who adopts them, 
immediately thinks himself superior to, and fitted to instruct the 
wisest of his fellow men. This is one of the many disgusting 
features of the system,” added St. Clair, rising abruptly and 
walking towards a window, desiring apparently to put an end 
to the subject. 

“ You must allow me to say one word,” replied Mrs. Oswald. 
“ The defect you mention cannot, with a shadow of fairness, be 
ascribed to the system, because its very character and essence 
is humanity.” 

St. Clair remained silent, and another pause in the conversa- 
tion followed. The evening w'as beautiful; and, though late. 
Catliarine proposed walking. ♦ 

“ We have many charming walks here,” said she, turning to 
St. Clair (who remained at the window), and directing her eyes 
to the scenery below. 

He looked in the same direction for a moment, then turned 
away. He seemed to hate its beauty. 

“ You used to admire this part of the day, and like to walk 
at sunset, Mr. St. Clair,” said Catharine, in a voice less cold 
than that in which she had hitherto addressed him. 

He appeared softened for a moment, then said, turning 
gloomily away, “ I used to like and admire many things 
which I must not now trust myself to look at. Sunset is 
one.” 


144 


. DUNALLAX ; OR, 


Catharine felt his meaning, and re23roached herself for having 
said any tiling to produce such a reply. She turned to Mrs. St. 
Clair, and again resumed her endeavors to find some topic of 
conversation that might excite her interest; but her attempts 
for some time were unsuccessful : the subjects at least on which 
Catharine chose to converse had no interest for Mrs. St Clair, 
and those into which she would eagerly have entered were stu- 
diously avoided by Catharine. At last she recollected that Mrs. 
St. Clair was engaged ifi superintending the erection of a mag- 
nificent mansion at her beautiful isle, and she easily succeeded 
in leading her to talk of it. Mrs. Oswald, who never was idle, 
when she saw that young St. Clair determined to remain silent, 
employed herself busily at her work. St. Clair stood with his 
back to the window, and his eyes either fixed in deep thought 
on the carpet, or raised to Cathanne, with an expression that 
betrayed the subject of his contemplations. He looked miser- 
able, and his uneasiness seemed to increase the longer he in- 
dulged in thought. 

Catharine continued to listen to Mrs. St, Clair, and, at her re- 
quest, began to sketch the plan of a gothic windqw for the hall 
of her new. house. 

“ Oh ! that is quite beautiful,” exclaimed Mrs. St. Clair, 
when she had- finished fit. “ Look, Arthur, is not this much 
more perfect than any of those in our plans? but you have lost 
all interest in the house now,” said she, reproachfully, as he 
slomy . advanced from the window, “you are most unaccount- 
ably changeable, Arthur. Is it not beautiful ? ” 

“ Beautiful, indeed 1 Shall I preserve the sketch for you, 
madam ? V 

A servant at that moment appeared., Catharine knew it was 
to announce the hour of prayers. Mrs. Oswald said, “ very 
well, John;” and the servant left the room. 

“ Do fix the sketch, Mr. St. Clair,” said Catharine, placing 
drawing materials before him. ^ “ I must leave you for a short 
time, madam,” added she, turning to Mrs. St. Clair, and a good 
deal embarrassed. But meeting Mrs. Oswald’s look of anxious 
concern, and recoll.ecting the contempt with which she had 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


145 


:treated‘’the'>fears of that good lady, lest she should be deterred 
from duty by the dread of ridicule, she recovered her. compo- 
sure, and said, in a calm voice, “ iVIr. Dunallan thinks it proper 
that his servants should have the Scriptures read to them daily, 
and, in his absence, I have undertaken, directed by Mrs. Os- 
wald, to continue this custom.’’ 

Mrs. St. Clair and her son looked at each other. Do you 
not admit your friends to the benefit of your instructions?” 
asked Mrs. St. Clair. 

‘•I do not pretend to instruct,” replied Catharine, mildly; 
“ but Mrs. Oswald has convinced me that the attempt at inform- 
ing our servants is a duty. I merely read a portion of Scrip- 
ture and a short explanation ; and as I a?n convinced of its 
being a duty, I must not, be deterred by ridicule from perform^ 

- ing it.” 

“No one certainly could rbe so cruel as to ridicule any thing 
defended so .” St. Clair proceeded thus far, and then stopped. 

“ Will you admit us ?” asked) he. 

“ You must excuse me,” replied Catharine, “ were Mr. Dun- 
allan at home I should entreat you to join us.” , 

St. Clair turned away in displeasure. When Mrs. Osw'ald 
and Catharine returned,, they found Mrs. St. Clair and her son 
looking gloomier ‘than before. There was a sweet calmness 
and elevation in ithe expression' of Catharine’s countenance, 
however, and a dignified ’ and cheerful composure in Mrs. 
Oswald’s, which commanded their respect ; and by degrees they 
were restored to an apparently happier state of feeling. 

Catharine felt greatly relieved, when Mrs., St. Clair declared 
her intention of going next day. She would have concealed 
her satisfaction, but saw by the angry, expression of St. Clair’s 
countenance that he had perceived it. She felt extremely dis- 
pleased, however, at the freedom wuth which he continued to 
watch her every word and look ; and the cold calmness of her 
eye when she addressed , him, seemed to recall to,, him the 
remembrance of her situation. . mI 

. Next morning, at breakfast, a veiy large packet was brought 
to Catharine ; she observed the postmark and became very 

13 


146 


DUNALLAN; OR, 


pale. St. Clair seemed to understand the causCj and it darkened 
his brow. 

“ No wonder such letters should be longed for,” said he, 
contemptuously but bitterly, and looking at its size. 

" “ Certainly not,” replied she, “ when the contents, too, are 
always even more interesting than they are expected to be.” 

St. Clair’s eye flashed ; but for a moment he was silent, then 
said, with forced calmness, You have convinced me at last, 
madam, that your sex possesses one virtue, which I have hith- 
erto been such an infidel as to doubt ; that of becoming moulded 
into new habits, and new feelings, and new affections, with a 
facility, almost incomprehensible, and in proportion,” added he, 
sarcastically, “ to the dislike and contempt with which they for- 
merly viewed those habits, and those objects which they after- 
wards value.” 

“ You ought, rather, from my experience, to be convinced of 
an unhappy defect in my sex,” replied Catharine ; “ that of 
allowing prejudice to take such complete possession of the mind, 
that nothing less than a superiority in every thing, almost more 
than human, can overcome it.” 

St. Clair bit. his lip. Catharine had looked calmly and fixedly 
at him while she spoke, and the effect of what she had said, on 
the expression of his countenance almost frightened her ; but 
his reflection on Dunallan had roused her spirit, and she now 
longed for an opportunity of honoring him in the presence of 
those contemptuous St. Clairs. 

“ Pray, read your letter, madam,” said Mrs. St. Clair. I 
beg we may not for a moment prevent your enjoying that 
pleasure.” 

Catharine only bowed, and then broke the seal. She looked 
at the date, then at the conclusion, but that was too kind to be 
read in such company ; tears filled her eyes, tears that she saw 
were observed, but she cared not. She folded up her letter, and 
laid it by her, and then attempted to converse with Mrs. St. 
Clair ; but her thoughts Avandered to her letter, and it was with 
great pleasure she heard Mrs. St. Clair’s carriage announced, 
and saw her soon after depart with her haughty and disappointed 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


147 


Catharine embraced Mrs. Oswald with unusual tenderness ; 
“ you have seen a specimen of my friends, my dearest madam,” 
said she, “ and I have had many such. You see how sincerely 
they wish for my happiness.” 

“ But you must Iiave some excuse for this lady, my dear,” 
replied Mrs. Oswald. “ I see how matters stand ; you have 
disappointed her dearest hopes and favorite plans, and her son’s 
also. Ah, my dear Catharine, you may be very thankful that 
the singularly pleasing exterior of that young man did not en- 
gage your youthful affection ; he could not have made you 
happy. But adieu, for a little, my love : I see you are impatient 
to read your letter.” 

Catharine shut herself up in her room, and was soon com- 
2)letely absorbed. Dunallan’s letter consisted of many sheets 
closely written. 

“ Each succeeding letter from you, my dearest Catharine, 
confirms me in the idea I had formed of your character, and 
strengthens the hope that I shall soon see you become all I 
could wish. You are right, my sweet friend, in your supposi- 
tion, that kindly as I express my interest in you, and kindly — 
tenderly as I feel for you, there is yet a want, a defect in your 
character, which I have never clearly expressed. I will tell 
you my reason, because, until I received your last letter, I did 
not suppose you would have understood my meaning. I see 
you look surprised ; but, my dear Catharine, had I said to you 
the week before we left Dunallan Castle, that you w^ere ignorant 
of the true nature of religion, would you not have repelled the 
charge, and regarded me as a gloomy, bigoted enthusiast, as. 
your friends did ? I would not now say this of you, my dearest 
Catharine, though my opinion was not greatly changed, until I 
received your last (to me precious) letter, which proves to me 
tliat you begin to feel that humbling sense of your natural 
disrelish of what true religion requires, which I think must be 
felt before we can at all appreciate the Christian system. You 
have discovered the difference between the religion of the 
imagination, and that of the heart and understanding. You 
are convinced that the former is of no value, and that the last 


148 


PUNALLAN; or, 


is absolutely necessary; bW your understanding feels its 
weakness in attempting to comprehend the doctrines, and your 
heart its opposition to the strict and spiritual precepts of the 
New Testament — and this pains you. What will you think 
of my affection for you, my Catharine, when I ■ say, that I 
hope this pain may increase ? I wish I could bear it for you, 
but that is impossible. If by this means you are to be 
brought into the fold, the Shepherd of the flock alone can 
carry on his own process in your mind. Watch its progress, 
my dear Catharine,’ and seek to know more of his character 
who has your heart in ' his hand. Study his gracious prom- 
ises to the young, and to all 'who really wish to devote them- 
selves to liis service. Study his precepts, and attempt to 
perform all he demands. You will ever}'- moment feel ^mur 
inability, and thus your humble opinion of* yourself 'will 
increase : the more it does so, the more are you fitted to value 
that religion, which is suited to those only who feel truly, 
experimentally, that in themselves they are lost. Fear not 
to tread this lowly path, my dear Catharine, for it leads to 
the purest, the most exalted happiness! because it leads us 
to seek it from Him who is its source, and whom a hopeless 
sense of our ’ natural unfitness to love and serve as he de- 
mands, leads us to regard as our only Saviour, our strength, our 
light, our peace, our all. But I say too much — now you will 
not understand me. Oh ! that you did, my beloved Catharine. 

“You wish to know, my dear Catharine, what led me to 
adopt the principles which noVv ' influence me. You wish 
also to know more of my 'college friend, in 'vidiom my aunt 
has greatly interested you; ‘but not;’ you sweetly add, it 
recalling any thing that is past would give me pain.’ It 
cannot pain me to recall his idea : it is, indeed, seldom long 
absent from my thoughts, and it would add to my happiness, 
my dear Catharine, if I could interest you in the memory ot 
the being on earth whom I have loved most, and have been most 
indebted to. You Shrink, most naturally shrink, from the knowl- 
edge of that miserable course of sin, which marked a part, thank 
Heaven, a short part of my youth ; but you may trust me. * I am 


KNOW AVHAT YOU JUDGE. 


149 


IV j one of those who imagine a young and inexperienced mind 
cah in any way be benefited by becoming , acquainted with the 
seci-ets of wickedness : and to you, my dearest Catharine ; you 
of w'hose delicacy I consider myself the guardian ! But no 
mo'’e of this — forgive even so much. What I wish is this — to 
convince you of. the utter incapacity of the human heart to be 
truly moral. Temptations may differ, and lead to different 
results,.'^at none can ever comprehend what pure morality is 
without aid from Keaven, without a revelation, and the power to' 
understanti it. I am willing to give you myself as an example 
of this incapacity, not because I think I w^as better disposed 
than othersj, out because I am better acquainted with what has 
passed in my, own heart 5 'and because I began life wdth a high 
aim, and a }i?gh* opinion of man’s moral capacity. I do feel 
half ashamedn however, to commence my own historian, and 
almost shrink from the fulfilment of my promise ; but I cannot 
otherwise in^ike you acquainted with my friend, or des^cribe the 
power of his mind over mine, or the phange of my own. Dear 
Catharine, I wish I could give you an idea of the interest I feeh 
in your real happiness while I write, — in your soul’s happiness, 
that immortal soul, which has been placed by Heaven in some 
degree in my cliarge, and which must be prepared during the 
short period of life, for an existence that shall never end ! But 
no more of thisj lest I should disgust instead of convincing you. 

“ I. believe, my dear. Catharine,- you know that I was pecu- 
liarly happy in a mother. . During her life, as even I then knew, 
my education was a continual cause of difference of opinion 
between her and my father ; yet so gently did she differ from 
him, and on every .other thing she was. so sweetly yielding, that, 
except on one point, she generally directed all my concerns. 
That one point was religion. My mother’s opinions on that 
subject were disagreeable to my father in the extreme, and he 
was determined that I should not imbibe the;n. My mother 
would have prefen-ed a home education during early youth : 
my father considered a large school most suitable to develop 
and strengthen the character of a boy. As my home did not 
promise those virtuous examples which are the chief advantage 

13 -^ 


150 


DUNALLiVN; OR, . 


of a private education, my mother at last consented to part 
with me, on my father’s yielding to her wish, that I might be 
placed where there were only a small number of boys. My 
father, however, chose my tutor ; and the gentleman on whom 
he fixed had every requisite excepting the one most valued by 
my mother. He was a man of superior talents ; a deep and 
elegant scholar, with a taste singularly refined and. cultivated; 
he had also lived, much in the world, and his manners were 
extremely polished. My companions in this gentleman’s house 
were a limited number of boys, sons of some of the first 
families in the country. With such a tutor, who devoted him- 
self to the improvement of his pupils, and with a natural incli- 
nation for those pursuits most valued by him, my progress was 
so rapid as very soon to gain me a high place in his favor. It 
was also my .nature, to desire ardently to be loved by those 
around me, and I easily gained the affections of my young com- 
panions. When I visited home I was caressed by every one. 
My father, I perceived, regarded me^ as his pride and hope. My 
mother’s affection for me seemed increased by my absence from 
home. She attempted, however, with the most solicitous ten- 
derness, to convince me that no mental acquirements, no personal 
accomplishments, no degree of the esteem, or love, or admira- 
tion of others, were of any value without religion. She said, 
they were snares to foster pride and delude the soul. I listened 
to her, because I loved, and could not give her pain ; but my 
tutor was a deist, and I had learned from him to consider all 
systems of religion, in short, all religion excepting that of 
nature, as priestcraft and deception, suited only to trammel 
weak and ignorant minds. I remained with my tutor till 1 went 
to college. You can hardly, my dear Catharine, conceive a 
being more ignorant of the world, and human nature as it really 
is, than I then was. My companions and myself, while with 
our tutor, lived^ almost apart from all other society; and his 
kindness, and pleasant method of conveying instrpction, joined 
to the elevated tone of morality, and high sense of honor 
which he inculcated, led us to love and esteem him so warmly, 
that even during our visits at home, which at his request were 


KNOW AVI! AT YOU JUDGE. 


151 


very short, we still acted as if under his eye. Seven of us 
went at the same time to college, our heads filled wdtli learning, 
and our hearts glowing with admiration of the characters of 
antiquity — their patriotism, their eloquence, and, I may add, 
their pride ; and turning with contempt from all the humbler 
virtues — virtues which Christianity in its precepts, and the 
common realities of life, teach us to regard as most valuable. 
At this time I lost my mother, and her death first taught me the 
insutficiency of the theories of philosophy to overcome, or even 
to soften, real grief. But time did Avhat they could not do ; 
and the affectionate cares of my young friends drew me again 
into those studies and pursuits for which I had lost all relish. 
My ambition to excel returned. I again labored for distinction, 
and soon ^succeeded in obtaining a reputation almost equal to 
my desires. My father had early taught me to regard the 
senate of my country as the proper place for the employment 
•of my talents and acquirements ; and, above all, where I might 
distinguish myself most conspicuously. I soon found that he 
was right. All the young men of family at college who Avere 
remarkable for talent, Avere taught to prepare for the same 
destination. Eloquence became one of my favorite pursuits. 
I studied all its masters with ardent attention, and cultivated 
every exterior grace. I also, with the permission jof my supe- 
riors, prevailed on some of my numerous friends at college to 
meet together, for the purpose of improving and exhibiting our 
powers of elocution ; and this meeting soon became the favorite 
recreation of all the young men most distinguished for talent at 
the uniA^ersity. We invited all our college friends who chose to 
attend, and to giA^e their opinions on the subjects in debate. 

“ ^ne evening as I declaimed on a favorite subject, and Avas_ 
listened to with eager attention and frequent bursts of applause, 
I remarked one striking and unknown countenance opposite to 
me, Avhich did not join in the general expression of approba- 
tion. There was something in this countenance which attracted 
me so forcibly, that my eyes continually returned to it ; but I 
finished my declamation, and returned to my seat amidst thun- 
ders of applause, Avithout having received one mark of admi- 


152 


DUT^ALLAN ; OR, 


ration from him. His eye, however, followed me, and he half 
rose as if to speak, but another.. young man got up, and he 
resumed his seat. I immediately called on the stranger, as I 
had seen him half up before the other rose ; but he seemed to 
wish to decline speaking, until called on by half the assembly. 
A blush glowed for a moment on his line but pale countenance, 
and for the first few words he hesitated ; but, soon recovering 
himself, his low and harmonious voice, and beautiful language, 
instantly arrested every one’s attention ; and then the strikingly 
clear, though simple arguments, by which he proved that all I 
had said was mere sophistry, extorted applause even from those 
who were so warmly attached to me, that they would willingly 
have shared the disgrace of my defeat in argument. The 
stranger’s speech was short, and he retired to his seat, appa- 
rently wishing to conceal himself from the many inquiring eyes 
which were fixed upon him. My friends looked at me, expect- 
ing that I should reply ; but I felt that I could not, and openly* 
avowed my inability, and the extreme admiration with which 
the overpowering talents and eloquence of the last speaker had 
filled me. This avowal was followed by the applause of my 
friends, and now also by those of my interesting opponent, who, 
by a feeling and beautifully expressed .compliment to my noble 
ingenuousness, as he called it, and also to my talents, which he 
said could only fail when they undertook the defence of so bad 
a cause, in some degree restored me to my own good opinion. 
The subject of discussion had been one on which I had often 
before declaimed, and enjoyed the consciousness of my powers 
of eloquence, while I had, almost at will, excited the deepest 
emotions in the young and ardent spirits who listened to me. I 
heard' no more that eyening. Many attempts were made to re- 
ply to the stranger, all equally uns^uccessful ; _and after listening 
for some time, he took advantage of a dispute about precedency, 
and retired. No one near me could, give tine any information 
respecting him ; he seemed quite unknown even by name. I 
had sought his acquaintance by my looks.; but though I thought 
that he regarded me with complacency when our eyes met, he 
seemed rather to avoid looking at me; and I felt, hurt* even at 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


153 


this supposed rejection of my advances. When he retired, 
however, I no longer found any interest in what past. When 
the assembly dispei'sed, I followed a young man with whom 
alone I had seen the stranger converse, and learned that his 
name was Churchill •; that he was the son of a clergyman, and 
was himself studying for the same profession, which induced 
him to cultivate every means of improving his talent for public 
speaking. learned, also, that it was his choice, from the lim- 
ited income of his family, and still more from the singularity of 
his own roligious opinions, to live as retiredly as possible. I 
expressed myself so warmly in his praise, that ChurchiH’s friend 
asked if I wished for his acquaintance. ' • • " 

“ ‘ I have courted him unsuccessfully with ray eyes,^ replied 
I laughing. ‘ I should like extremely to be acquainted with 
him, however, if die has no objection.’ 

“ Next day I met Churchill’s friend, but-> he sdid nothing to 
me on the subject of the preceding evening’s conversation. ' ‘ ' 
“ ^ I perceive,’ said I to him, ‘ that your friend has declined 
my acquaintance.’ , 

“ He made some awkward apology ; and I cannot describe to 
you, my dear Catharine, how much my pride was hurt by this' 
refusal of my offered regard. I determined, however, that at 
I least I should not deserve his contempt. I studied the subject 
: on which we were the next evening to debate with the deepest 
' attention. On that evening my eye sought for him whenever 1 
I entered the hall. He was there, and I thought looked away 
I rather confused when our ^ eyes met. After several speeches 
I Churchill rose, and again drew forth the most unbounded ap- 
I plause ; yet when I folloived him on this night, and on the oppo- 
[ site side of the question, the general voice seemed to be with- 
me. I avoided looking at Churchill ; but as we left the hall, we 
came together to a narrow door-way: I stood back to let him 
pass. He bowed : ‘ Of courtesy, not of right,’ said he, as he 
passed. 

‘“I feel it of right, in every way,’ replied I. He only smil'^d, 
shook his head, and bowed again. ' 

“ ‘ Are you acquainted with Mr. Churchill ?’ asked a yoiitig 
man who walked with me towards my apartments. 


154 


DUNALLAN; OR. 


‘‘ ‘ No/ replied I ; ‘ he does not wish for my acquaintance/ 

“ ‘ Not wish for it ! ’ exclaimed my young companion ; ‘ ho 
surely has not declined it ? ’ added he, ‘ if you wish for his/ 

‘ I certainly wish for his,’ replied I, ‘ ardently wish for it ; 
but he does not feel on this subject as you do. I believe he does 
not think my acquaintance worth seeking/ 

“ Some one put his arm within mine. It was dark, and know- 
ing that many of my friends walked near me, I was not sur- 
prised. 

“ ‘ Will you accept of the acquaintance of a listener ? ’ said 
the voice of Churchill. 

“ I was delighted. ‘ I will grasp at his acquaintance on any 
terms,’ replied I, warmly shaking his hand, wliich he as warmly 
returned. 

“ ‘ I have broken through a resolution/ said Churchill, ‘ for 
the very reason, I believe, which ought to have determined me 
to keep it/ 

‘ What was your resolution ? ’ 

“ ‘ Not to get acquainted with you.’ 

“ ^With me! With our set of young men, I suppose you 
mean.’ 

“ ‘ No, Mr. Dunallan, with yourself.’ 

“ ‘ And why so, Mr. Churchill ? ’ 

“ ‘ Ah, that is a long story. I shall tell it you another 
time.’ 

“ ^ Come and sup with me now.’ 

“ ‘ I never sup out ; but I shall go with you for half an 
hour.’ 

“ When we were alone, I asked his reason for wishing so par- 
ticularly to avoid my acquaintance. 

“ '■ Because/ replied he, ‘ I know the superiority of your 
talents, and the influence you acquire over those with whom 
you associate, by the union of those talents with your temper 
and powers of pleasing. I dreaded you, Dunallan.’ 

“ ‘ But why, Churchill ? I am not conscious of having used 
my influence, whatever it is, to lead any one astray/ 

‘ I am cerUiin you never intentionally have/ replied he, 


KNOW WIIA-T YOU JUDGE. 


155 


‘yet you do lead astray; and I feel that you would soon 
acquire an accountable power over me also, should my 
judgment yield to my affections. I do not know if I am right,' 
added he, ‘but the selfish, cautious dread of receiving injury 
from you has given place to the ardent, though perhaps rash, 
desire of attempting to rescue you from the influence of what I 
am convinced are very dangerous opinions.' 

“ I urge?l him to explain himself. 

“ ‘ Forgive me,’ replied he, ‘if I remind you of the opinions 
you so eloquently advanced, and which were so rapturously 
received and imbibed by those who listened to you on the first 
evening we met.’ i . 

“ ‘ And which you, with such superior talent,' refuted,’ re- 
plied I. 

“ ‘ My fate this evening,' replied Churchill, ‘ has shown 
whose talents are most superior. It was the goodness of my 
cause alone which gave me an advantage on that evening; and 
believe me, Dunallan, whenever you attempt to argue in favor 
of human virtue, and its value, and the “vast conquests of 
human reason,’ you will find that very inferior abilities, with 
' some knowledge of the human heart, will be able to refute all 
you say. Why, Dunallan,’ continued he, ‘are you such an 
enemy to revelation ? ’ 

“ ‘^Eevelation 1 ’ repeated I, with disgust, ‘ I am an enemy to 
every thing that debases the human mind. There are parts of 
what you call revelation which I admire as much as you can 
do ; but I cannot — I have not tried to believe what is contrary 
to reason — to probability — to common sense. Surely, Church- 
ill, you cannot pretend to say that you have succeeded in sub- 
jecting that fine mind of yours to the belief, or to the supposition 
that the belief is necessary, of all the contradictions — all the 
absurd ’ • ' 

“ ‘ Stop, Dunallan,’ interrupted Churchill, ‘ do not add to 
your future regret, by the abuse of that which I fervently hope 
may one day be to you, as it now is to me, I solemnly declare, 
in as far as a weak and perverted, though proud and cavilling 
nature, will suffer it to be, — the test by which I try every 


156 


dunallan; or, 


principle, every word, every action, every thought ; the light 
and guide of my soul, the foundation of ail my hopes, and the 
support and consolation of my heart/ 

“ I shall never foi*get, my dear Catharine, the tone of voice, 
and the elevated expression of countenance which accompanied 
these words. I can understand now from whence they pro- 
ceeded ; I could not then ; and when Churchill took leave, I 
felt bewildered in forming my judgment of his character. My 
conclusion, however, was, that early education had clouded dds 
noble faculties, and now led him to view as dangerous whatever 
was contrary to prejudices which, from their connection with 
lofty and mysterious subjects, were calculated to engage a mind 
such' as I supposed his to be ; yet his dread -of the influence of 
others, proved to me that he felt the weakness of the ground on 
which he stood. I therefore determined to avoid combating those 
prejudices, which seemed to have their hold as much on his heart 
as on his imagination, but to attempt to lead him gradually to 
the beautiful, and I then thought irresistible, theories which filled 
my own mind. I soon found, however, that it was impossible 
to avoid entering into argument with Churchill respecting his 
opinions, because they, in some degree, pervaded every subject 
on which he conversed. In spite of this, I became every day 
more attached to him. I greatly disliked, his religious senti- 
ments, however, and labored, both when with him, and when 
absent from him, to find arguments to overturn a, system which 
seemed to utifit him for the world. I was perfectly sincere 
then, in thinking my own system the right one, and in every 
thing but in complying with Churchill’s desire to examine his 
opinions; for some of them appeared to me so absurd and un- 
reasonable that I had not patience to hear him argue in their 
defence. I introduced the subject into our public debates ; as I 
expected, all at first joined me ; but Churchill stood firm, though 
alone. : In a short time, however, to my grief and dismay, the 
friend at college, whom I loved and esteemed next to Churchill, 
adopted all his notions. This friend, my dear Catharine, was 
Walderford. His talents, particularly his powers of reasoning, 
had been esteemed by us all as very superior. His adoption of 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


157 


-Churchill’s opinions made a great sensation among us, and. even 
I then attempted to comprehend their system, and, if possible, 
to reconcile it to reason ; but in vain. I told Walderford so. 
He only smiled, and assured me that, while I worshipped human 
reason, there was no room in my heart for the true God. I 
asked him, in the bitterness of sarcasm, ‘ If the Being he wor- 
shipped was the God of fools only ? ’ 

“ ‘ Even so,’ replied he, with perfect mildness, though ho 
was naturally of a very warm temper,, ‘ even so, Dunallan; 
liis true worshippers must become, fools in their own eyes, and 
perhaps in the eyes of others ; they must lay aside the pride of 
reason, and their trust in its power, and subject their un- 
derstandings to the teaching of Him who is the only source 
of truth.’ ; ' ■ ^ 

“ I shall not repeat our inany arguments, my dear Catha- 
rine; I shall only give, you. an idea of the systems we each 
maintained. ’Mine was this; That the human soul\is, when 
it enters life, perfectly iimocent, and perfectly pure, possessed 
of the germ of all those powers, in different degrees, which are 
afterwards to be devoted, to good, or evil, according to the will 
of the possessor, biassed, of course, by circumstances, ex- 
ample, or education. That' the human will is perfectly free, 
and able to choose the path it may pursue ; and that human 
virtue consists in- preferring what is good and great, in pro- 
portion to the obstacles it overcomes in making this choice. 
That the Supreme Being will at last reward those with ever- 
lasting happiness • who attain, at least, to a greater degree of 
virtue thap vice:; as to what should become of those who did 
not, I had formed no opinion ; for; respecting the declarations 
of Scripture on that point, I , was, to say Jthe least, completely 
skeptical. The founder of the Christian religion I regarded 
as . But, indeed, dear Catharine, I will not risk the possi- 

bility of misleading your mind by entering into the thoughts I 
then presumptuously indulged on. this most sacred subject. 
Suffice it to say, tliat, as a small part only of the doctrines of 
Christianity can be comprehended by the natural human un- 
derstanding, to that part only I assented. I shall not mention 
. 14 


158 


DUNALLAN ; OR, 


the many absurd and irreverent speculations which were en- 
tertained on this subject by my companions and myself. The 
morality of the New Testament I greatly admired, though I 
thought many parts of it unfit for real life. 

“ Churchill’s opinions will, perhaps, appear to you, as they 
then did to me, inconsistent with reason, and dishonorable to 
the Divine Being. He believed that a strong bias to evil was 
inherent in human nature, and an incapacity to choose what is 
good. He argued from Scripture, and from facts. I argued 
against both, in defence of man’s natural innocence. He con- 
sidered human reason as utterly incapable of discovering truth 
with regard to the relation subsisting between us and our 
Creator, and equally incapable of judging of what was suitable 
for that Creator to require of his creatures. That a revelation 
to inform us of this was absolutely necessary ; and that, when 
such a revelation was offered, and when we had investigated the 
truth of its claims to inspiration, with fairness, and upon proper 
principles, and found the proofs so complete as to convince our 
reason, which ought to judge here, we had only then to subject 
every power of our souls to the implicit reception of every 
word of this revelation ; and when w’^e could not comprehend, 
we ought to pray humbly, and believing firmly in its promises, 
for greater degrees of light. And in this spirit alone, he said, 
could we understand the meaning of Scripture ; and that until 
we, in some degree, comprehended revelation, and felt its 
influence on our belief, our affections, and our conduct, our 
minds were ignorant of what real truth was, and in utter dark- 
ness ; — we neither know ourselves, nor our present abject state, 
nor the high destination -which we despised, nor the character 
of the Judge of the Universe, nor, in a word, any thing. 

“These opinions were revolting and disgusting to me in the 
extreme ; but my arguments had no influence with either 
Walderford or Churchill, and as we could not agree, we 
resolved to avoid the subject, with this agreement, that our after 
lives should be the test of our principles. I observed Qiurchill, 
when we made this agreement, as he turned from me, raise his 
eyes to heaven, as if imploring power to prove the truth of his 
principles. 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


159 


“ ‘ My natural powers against your prayers, Churehill,’ said 
I, in my usual tone of ridicule. 

“ He smiled, but faintly, and a momentary paleness passed 
over his countenance. 

“ ‘ You frighten me, Dunallan,’ replied he. ‘ If you knew the 
goodness which you thus resist!’ — he stopped, and only added, 
‘You shall not be without those prayers you so ignorantly 
despise.’ 

“ After this, we seldom mentioned the subject ; and for some 
months, I believe, I enjoyed as uninterrupted happiness as any 
rational being, in my then state of ignorance of the real source 
of enjoyment, could ; and I can understand the feelings of those 
who, disgusted with a chilling and corrupting and jarring world, 
and having no knowledge of happiness independent of what that 
world can give, look back on the time spent at college as the 
happiest of their lives. Walderford, Churchill, and I, were sel- 
dom asunder, and our affection daily increased. They both 
rather shunned the subject of religion, but declared their belief 
that I should one day think as they did. I believed them 
sincere, and by turns pitied and envied their delusions, particu- 
larly Churchill’s, who appeared to derive a happiness from his 
religion which astonished me ; he seemed to bring it into every 
thing. We were all enthusiastic admirers of nature; but he 
seemed to enjoy a pleasure so exquisite in beholding its beauties, 
that he had no language in which to express his feelings; or 
rather, he seemed to enjoy an internal delight, the source of 
which I did not comprehend ; for to me then, beautiful as nature 
appeared, its beauty made me sad. The smallest flower seemed 
a source of the sweetest pleasure to Churchill. ‘ How beautiful 
is His pencilling!’ he would exclaim, and then seemed to regard 
it with a glow of rapture. Walderford seemed to understand 
him, but did not appear so happy. 

“ ‘ Ah, Walderford ! ’ said I once to him, ‘ the disciples can- 
not command the sweet delusions of the master ; your new 
religion has not added to your happiness.’ 

“ ‘ I confess,’ replied he, ‘ I am not yet so happy as Churchill. 
All his difficulties are nearly overcome. I am still combat- 


IGO 


DUNALLAN ; OR, 


ing with mine, and most of all with my cherished pride of fear 
son ; but, Dunallan, you have no cause to doubt my word, 
and I declare to. you before heaven, that, from what even/ 
know and feel of the influence of true religion, the mind, how- 
ever informed on other subjects, while without it, is still 
deficient in even an idea of what real peace, or truth, or 
happiness is.’ . ' ' 

“ I wondered at the strength of his delusion, for he often 
seemed absent and uncomfortable ; but he turned from all I said 
with the most impenetrable indifference. 

‘•At last the dreaded time of our separation arrived. Wal- 
dei-ford was called home to his father, who' Avas ill ; Churchill 
had the offer of a curacy in the west of England ; and I, at my 
father’s' 'desire, was to pay a visit to a friend of his/ who had 
spent a long life in the service of the jAublic, as my father said, 
and knew men as the}'' really Avere. 

“ ]\Iy father’s ambition Avas, tliat I should distinguish myself 
in a political life. This liad been my own, also'; but the deep 
distress I experienced on parting from my friends,' particularly 
my beloved Churchill, overcame ambition for a time, and CA'ery 
thing else. Churchill discovered a degree of grief, also, at part- 
ing from me, which I had not thought any earthly deprivation 
could haA'e cost him. 


, CPIAPTER XII. 

dunallan’s letter. 

• ' • — • j .J ■ ‘I* 

“My father’s friend,’ to AVhose seat near London I imme- 
diately repaired on leaving college,' was a man of the most 
insinuating manners, and immediately acquired great influence 
over my mind. He found me very ignorant of the world as 
it really is, and told me so. He advised me to make* human 
nature, as- it appeared in society, my peculiar study, adding, 
that the experience of another could not make me 'acquainted 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


161 


M'itli it; and that with my present notions of it, I need not 
attempt to enter on a political life. I asked his advice as to 
where I should seek this indispensable knowledge ; hut this will 
not interest you, my dearest Catharine. I will only tell you, 
that he warned me against attaching myself to any party, an * 
advice I had often received from Churchill also while at college ; 
and to use my own observation and reason in judging. Lord 
Coverdale (that was the name of my father’s friend) also 
directed me to books fitted to promote my jiiursuits; and full 
of the determination to find something to examine in every 
person 1 met, in every society, I set olF for my fiithcr’s. I had 
not seen him siilce my mother’s death, and a very shoid resi- 
dence at home proved to me that it no longer could have any 
attraction for me. Mrs. Oswald has, I believe, informed you, 
my dear Catharine, of the unhappy view of human nature 
which this visit at home was calculated to give me, in a way 
in which the lesson indeed was impressive. I was most 
wretched while witnessing it ; and when I found that my in- 
fiuence with my father could not overcome that of one of the 
worst of beings, and that I had no hope of any change, I de- 
termined to seek that hajipiness elsewhere which I could no 
longer enjoy under my father’s roof. I went to T^ondon, and 
spent most of my time at my brother-in-law Harcourfs, where 
I had an opportunity of finding, as I supposed, all I was in 
search of, human nature in every variety of character. I stud- 
ied the subject for some time without involving myself in any 
of the various pursuits and follies of the different men I asso- 
ciated with. This arose less from any previous resolutions, 
than from their want of congeniality with my taste. As to 
women, those with whom my sister was most intimate had few 
attractions for me. I admired their beauty and grace, but tliey 
all resembled each other so closely, in character and trifling 
pursuits, that I soon lost all curiosity and desire to form new 
acquaintances among them. Harcourt laughed at my insensi- 
bility on this subject, and tried every means, some of which 
were highly improper, to do it away, but in vain. My taste 
was really too refined to tolerate open vice, and my morals 

14 '^ 


162 


DUNALLAX ; OR, 


Still too pure to contemplate without disgust many scenes to 
which he attempted to introduce me. Ilarcourt had reasons 
for wishin" me to become as vicious as I afterwards discovered 
himself to be. He introduced me to all sorts of society. 
Young and inexperienced as I was, and having been assured 
also by Lord Coverdale, that I had formed an idea of the world 
which was entirely visionary, I only thought, when I heard or 
s[iw what shocked me, that I was discovering what was real* 
Churcliill, to whom I Avrote every thing which interested me, 
at last ventured to caution me against being led by Ilarcourt. 

‘ The world you describe,’ said he in a letter to me, ‘ is worse 
tlian even 1 suppose it. Can you breatlie such an atmosphere, 
Dunallan, and still believe in the purity of human nature ? ’ I 
replied, that large and corrupted towns were not the scenes in 
which to judge of human nature fairly, though those who 
aspired to governing their fellow men, ought to know them in 
all varieties of conditions, and that I should not yield to the 
disgust I felt while my own heart was innocent, (for so I then 
ignorantly thought it,) and while I remembered him. I ac- 
knowledged, however, that I did begin to feel less ambition to 
distinguish myself in the busier scenes of life. After this I 
gradually withdrew from Ilarcourt, to whose character my 
eyes were at last in some degree opened. He perceived this, 
and would probably have lost all influence over me, had he not 
at that time found means to become intimate in the house of a 
man of high rank, the inmates of which possessed the most 
fascinating manners. X^iis person was leader of a particular 
party in politics, so markedly, that my political friend. Lord 
Coverdale, had warned me against forming an intimacy in his 
family, unless 1 meant myself to be considered as attached to 
the same party. Ilarcourt brought me an invitation to a select 
party at this house, expressed in such flattering terms, that I 
felt it would be very marked in me to jilecline it. I informed 
Lord Coverdale of my intention to accept this invitation. He 
seemed vexed and displeased, and asked me if I did not know, 
that it was, in a refined way, one of the most immoral houses in 
the country. He had not hitherto paid much regard to my 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


1G3 


morals ; I therefore was convinced by this appearance of anx- 
iety about them now, that a suspicion I had sometime enter- 
tained was just (for I now did begin to see through men) ; 
this was, that Lord Coverdale, with all his professions of dislike 
to party, was himself in heart strongly opposed to that party, of 
whom Harcourt’s friend was a leader. This conviction dis- 
gusted me, and I therefore continued politely declaring my in- 
tention to visit at this house. 'When Lord Coverdale saw I 
was determined, he immediately overcame his vexation, and in 
the most cordial manner advised me to study the characters I 

should meet at Lord ’s, as they were, in talent at least, 

some of the first men in the country. ‘ And,’ added he, lau'di- 
ing, ‘ the women too, whom you will meet tiierc, are the first in 
female talent also.’ 

“ The preparation, and dread of danger, with which I com- 
menced my acciuaintanco at Lord ’s made me, J believe, 

the more easily deceived. I had been assured that he and his 
friends courted all the young men of fortune, in order to attach 
them to their party in politics. 1 expected this courting, and 
was prepared to resist, but I was disappointed. I was, indeed, 
received with fiattering distinction ; but this I immediately 
saw arose from the character given of me by some of my' 
numerous college friends, who, I found, were intimate in this 
family. 

“ Talents, wit, great acquirement of every kind, genius, taste, 
scientific knowledge, a taste for the fine arts, superior artists 
themsdlves ; in short, whatever was calculated to please or in- 
form, gained admittance liere. Dulness and ignorance only 
were excluded ; and in the family, and those they admitted to 
closest intimacy, the most fascinating and dignified polish was 
added to the most perfect ease of manners. I soon found that 
to gain the esteem of those around me, it was necessary I should 
exert all the talents I possessed. This stimulus to my natural 
desire of distinction was delightful to me ; and I found in this 
society a charm which no other had afforded me. 

“ In a short time I found that I had not exerted myself in 
vain. I saw that I was regarded with a degree of respect 


1G4 


DUNALLAN ; OR, 


which flattered my pride by all whom I met at this house, com- 
prising many of my own former friends, and also many men of 
high character for talents in almost every department of the 
higher classes of society. I felt that something superior was 
expected from me, and I labored not to disappoint their ex- 
pectations. Tlie women also, whom I met here, inspired me 
with an admiration, which I had not till then felt for any of the 
sex^ and for one lady, I dared scarcely to myself confess the 
nature of my feelings. She resided almost constantly with 
this family, with whom she was connected by marriage. Her 
liusband was frequently an inmate in the house. I see j’-ou 
start, Catharine, .and you mu^t prepare yourself now to hear, 
that the human lieart can deceive itself to a degree, of which* 
I know you have no idea. As this lady is still received into, 
and thought an ornament to many societies, I do not feel my- 
self at liberty to disclose her name even to you, my dear 
Catharine. I shall, therefore, conceal her real name under 
that of Aspasia. Aspasia, then, was at that time at least 
fifteen years older than I was, but still very beautiful, though 
quite unindebted to art. There was, also, in her countenance an 
expression of mind and soul, which captivated ‘me the first 
moment I beheld her. I ought here to inform my dearest of 
friends, that this delusion is long past, and that now the idea of 
Aspasia is to me the most painful that ever visits my recollec- 
tion. Aspasia’s person was also strikingly graceful. Her 
talents were very superior, and she seemed devoted to their 
cultivation. She was singularly well informed on almost every 
subject: her language was beautifully pure, and her voice har- 
mony itself. 

‘‘ On my first introduction to her, she seemed pleased, and 
entered into conversation with me ; but for some time afterwards 
she took scarcely any notice of me. She was, however, among 
the many attractions of this house, that which induced me to 
forego every other consideration ; such as being considered a 
party man in politics, and a free-thinker and libertine, at least 
in principle, of which I found all the intimate friends of this 
family were suspected. But no remonstrances of Lord Cover- 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


1G5 


Sale s, or even of Churchill’s who from tlie first disliked my 
description of this family, could prevail on me to give up a 
K)ciety Avhere all I heard and sav/ was calculated to deliglit me ; 
and where I constantly met Aspasia. The truth was, that I 
could perceive none of those dangers with which my friends 
threatened me ; and there appeared no wisli to deceive : on the 
contrary, the manners of those persons who were most esteemed 
and admired, were singularly open and simple: and their 
extreme polish seemed to be the consequence of that superior 
information, and that elegance and refinement of taste, which 
■were liere cultivated as the highest ornaments of liuman nature. 
Aspasia was* particularly simple in her manners ; but her every 
motion was grace, and every tone of her voice music itself. 
She was the idol of the scene. Her talents, her perseverance 
in their cultivation, her perfect ease of manner, her brilliant 
fancy, and charming powers of conversation, rendered lier the 
delight of the wise and grave, almost as much as she was the 
idol of the young and ardent. Her beauty and grace and 
gentle playful gaiet}', threw an illusive charm around her, 
which blinded the young and inexperienced to the real tendency 
both of her manners and conversation. I was one of this 
’ number. So perverted were my ideas by what I heard and 
saAV iiround me, that I was insensible to the impropriety of a 
married woman thus receiving, without any apparent displeasure, 
the marked homage of many young men of very dissipated 
character ; and. indeed of almost every man who approached 
her, although those who were more experienced assumed the 
mask of friendship, Avhile the 3"Oung and less guarded openly 
betrayed their sentiments. 

“ But, my dear Catharine, I do not mean to lead you through 
the scenes which debased my mind at that time. I imbibed 
without examination or suspicion the opinions which I heard 
constantly repeated in this society, where superior talents seemed 
to be considered as an excuse for uncontrolled passions; or 
rather, they were considered as inseparable : and strict virtue 
and morality were only to be expected from the naturally dull 
and phlegmatic. I gradually learned to despise those virtues 


1G6 


DUNALLAN ; OK, 


3 : 

most necessary to the happiness of mankind; or at least to 
consider them as fit only for the useful drudges in society. 
Women even were included in this opinion ; and those crimes 
by which they destroy the most sacred bonds of society, I 
considered even too severely punished by their being rejected 
from that society. 

“My ardent wishes and unwearied efforts to render myself 
agreeable to Aspasia at last succeeded : she treated me with 
marked preference, and I was intoxicated by the dangerous j 
distinction. The family had gone to a beautiful residence in 
the country ; and so complete was the freedom of every inmate, 
or visitor, that our particular friendship seemed scarcely observed, ! 
unless by my numerous rivals. I now thought of nothing but 
Aspasia, she was equally devoted to me. 

“ I look back Avith astonishment, and the deepest shame to 
that part of my life ; and I feel that you, Catharine, must be 
disgusted Avith the picture I have draAvn ; but I Avish to show 
you the state of delusion at Avhich 1 had arrived, that you may 
be convinced of the absolute necessity of other principles than 
those Avith Avhich I began life. So completely blinded Avas I 
then, that Avithout really deserving the imputation of hypocrisy, 
I could talk of virtue, Avhile I trampled on its plainest laAvs. I 
could talk of honor, as many men constantly do, Avhile acting 
a part the most base. I could talk loudly of the good of society, 
and of the corruption Avhich disgraced those who gave it laws, 
Avhile I Avas violating its most sacred obligations. 

“We returned to toAvn in a foAv months. Aspasia was still 
my idol ; but I began at intervals to see things as they really 
Avere. I, however, hated the light Avhich showed me the real 
nature of that course, on Avhich I had entered. I became 
gloomy and sad. Aspasia alone had still the power to charm. 
I recalled my former opinions of the powers of human nature, 
of reason, of high resolutions, Avilh feelings of bitter ridicule, 
and raised my thoughts in rebellious murmurs to that Being 
who plants the intolerable stings of remorse in the same heart 
whose passions are too strong to be restrained by the weakness 
of reason. 


KNOW WIIAT YOU JUDGE. 


167 


0 “I had neglected to write to Walderford, and even to Church- 
I. ill, yet they both continued to write to mb with the utmost 
« kindness. But their letters gave me little pleasure, for they 

1 seemed still happy in those delusions which had charmed them 
1 in their days of innocence and hope, while I had discovered the 

fallacy of mine. I felt miserable, and imagined that ignorance 
f of the world only could make any man hope to find happiness 
in it. I was conscious I possessed in a great degree all it could 
give. I knew at least that I was regarded as the most fortunate 
among those with whom I associated. The party to whom 1 
was considered to belong spoke in exaggerated terms of my 
character. I lijjd succeeded in winning the woman I loved. I 
was received in society, and by other women, with that flatter- 
ing distinction with which young men with high worldly pros- 
pects arc usually received ; yet I wearied of it all, nor could any 
thing but ignorance make Walderford happy, living in a retired 
situation, with an old and peevish father, and some friends of 
that father as disagreeable as himself ; or Churchill, doing the 
tiresome duties of a parish priest in an obscure corner of the 
country, with no society but a fev/ ignorant fox-hunters or 
country gentlemen. I wrote to them as I felt, ‘ that if they were 
really happy, it was only the happiness of ignorance to which 
I could not now return.’ Walderford in his reply to my letter, 
did not spare me. He ridiculed the idea of my being wearied 
of existence, and called it the unmanly and contemptible cai.t 
of the day ; reminded me of our difierent principles, and la- 
bored to show me, even from my own confession, that mine 
were erroneous and useless. I did not again write to him at 
that time. My heart was too wretched, and my temper had 
become too irritable to bear the least harshness without resent- 
ment. Churchill made the human heart his study, and he knew 
it better. He wrote to me more kindly and more mildly than 
ever. He agreed in all I said of the disappointing nature of 
all that is called pleasure. He invited me to go to him, and 
in his glowing language, described the beauty of the scenery 
around him. He said, ‘that its calm would restore a mind 
like mine to its natural tone, which had been lost from con- 


DUN ALL AN; OR, 


1C)8 

stant excitement and disappointment ; and enable me to see 
the future through’ a less gloomy medium, and the fair pros- 
pects life still held out for me.’ I loved Churchill moi-e than 
ever on receiving his letter. I looked on liiin as superior to 
common humanity, and longed to go to him. The remembrance 
of the days we had formerly spent together filled my heart with 
sensations, though sad, yet sweeter than any I ever now expe- 
rienced, and I determined to go to him immediately. 

“ I went to Aspasia to impart my intention to her. She was 
in despair — she knew Churchill’s character from me ; and when 
I Avould have taken leave of her, she said, in a voice scarcely 
articulate, ‘Farewell, then, Dunallan, fare Avell, for ever!’ and 
fainted. I could not leave her — I promised whatever she 
desired — but I felt the thraldom. 

“ I AVrote Churchill that I could not go to him : and again 
returned to the same round of insipid engagements, and hope- 
less pursuit of excitement as befo^'c. 

“ One night, on returning late to my lodgings, a servant in- 
formed me that a gentleman from tlie country had called on 
me, and had waited several hours for my return ; that he could 
remain no longer, but would again call in the morning. 

“ ‘ Did the gentleman not leave his name ? ’ asked I. 

“ ‘ I did not hear distinctly Avhat he said, sir,’ replied the 
man, Avho had forgot it ; ‘ but he seemed much disappointed at 
missing you, sir. lie is a tall, handsome, young gentleman, but 
looks sickly, and Avas dressed like a clergyman.’ 

“ ‘ Churchill ! ’ exclaimed I. 

“‘Yes,’ replied the servant, ‘that AA'as the name, sir.’ 

“ ‘ Where is he to be found ? ’ asked I, hurrying back to 4^he 
door. , 

“ ‘ lie did not say, sir.’ 

“ I Avas obliged to remain that night Avithout seeing him ; but 
I could not sleep : indeed I seldom slept peacefully at this peilod 
of my life. 

“ In the morning I Avatched for my friend in a state of emo- 
tion, Avhich convinced me that he Avas still dearer to me, hoAV- 
CA^er I might be entangled in the labyrinth of sin into which I 


KNOAV AVIIAT YOU JUDGE. 


1G9 


>C{ 

roj. entered, than Aspasia, or all the world. At last he came 
so kind, so mild, so wise, so pure, his conversation seemed to 
my heart like the dawn of the morning after a night of un- 
happy dreams. He told me that my last letter had led him to 
suspect that I had got myself involved in some connection which 
was become disagreeable to me, but which I could not break 
olf; and that he had come to town in the hope, that two heads, 
and one of them happily free, at least on this subject, might be 
better able than one, to discover some honorable way of es- 
cape. ‘If I am mjstaken, dear Dunallan,’ added he, ‘tell 
me so ; I do not wish to intrude myself into your con- 
lidence.’ 

“ ‘ Intrude, m;y dearest, kindest Churchill ! ’ exclaimed I, ‘ your 
interest in me — your friendship, is more valuable to mo than 
all the world contains besides. l"ou shall know my whole heart, 
Churchill, though I am conscious, that, in your eyes, I shall 
appear a criminal of the first rank.’ 

“ ‘ I hope not, dear Dunallan ; but if you have ened, the 
change in your looks proves, that, at least, you have been un- 
happy in doing so. You must retrace your steps again, my 
friend, till you return to that state of mind in Avdiich you Avere 
Avhen we last j^arted.’ ‘ > 

“ ‘ Impossible, Churchill ! ’ 

“ ‘ Impossible ! Why so ? Has one year, one short year, 
at your age, been so fatal to you, Dunallan ? Tell me, are 
you married? And is the object unworthy — unloved?’ 

“ ‘ No, Churchill, thank Heaven ! ’ 

! “ ‘ Thank Heaven ! ’ repeated Churchill, his countenance ex- 

; pressing the greatest joy. ' 

“ I told him all that had happened to me. His countenance, 
on our first meeting, had expressed the most anxious concern on 
observing the melancholy of my looks, Avhich had led liim to fear 
that I had taken some irremediable step. As I proceeded he 
: listened with the deepest attention, but his eyes Avere fixed upon 
[ the ground ; and though I Avished to read his countenance, he 
\ commanded it so perfectly, that I could not discover the im- 
[ pression Avhich my recital had made. When I had finished, he 

15 


170 - 


DUNALLAN ; OR, 


did not express any blame ; he only sympathized in my feelings 
of regret at having involved myself and Aspasia in a connect 
tion fraught with danger to her reputation, and unhappiness, 
in every way, to both of us. At last he exclaimed, 

“ ‘ Now, dear Dunallan, let us form some plan to put an end 
forever to this unhappy atfalr.’ 

‘ How can I, Churchill ? Can I make the woman misera- 
ble who has sacrificed every thing for me? And such a 
woman ! ’ 

“ He paused, looking earnestly at me. ^ ‘ Are there any ])o- 
litical engagements between you and that party among whom 
you meet Aspasia ? ’ 

“‘Not exactly,’ replied 1. ‘I'have supported their political 
opinions with the greatest openness. I have tacitly sutfercd 
myself to be talked of as one who, they expect, will, on future 
occasions, support them. 1 have made no promise, but should 
be regarded as having left ray party should I not realize those 
expectations ; however, this is of little consequence, as I really 
in general agree with them in political oj)inions.’ 

“ ‘ You have no present eiiga*gement with them ? ’ 

“ ‘ None.’ 

“‘Then, Dunallan, if you value peace of mind, — reputa- 
tion ; if you value any thing that is called virtue, leave Aspa- 
sia. You do not, you cannot, see the destructive course on 
which you have entered, nor its tendency to hurt your every 
hope, even in this world, until time and absence dispel the delu- 
sion which blinds you.’ 

“ ‘ Churchill,’ replied I, ‘ I cannot leave Aspasia. You do not 
know her; my ungrateful desertion would shorten her existence. 
At least, our separation must be gradual,’ added I, on seeing 
the expression of grief and disappointment which now clouded 
Churchill’s countenance. He shook his head : after a pause, 

“‘You formerly believed in the immortality of the soul, 
Dunallan,’ said he. 

“ ‘ I believe in it stMl, Churchill.’ 

“‘And yet you fear inflicting a short-lived pain on this idol 
of your affections. Is her soul less immortal ? ’ 


KNOW WIIAT YOU JUDGE. 


171 


“ ‘ Aspasia does not feel it, if she is in error,’ replied I ; ‘ her 
opinions on these subjects, her real opinions, are different from 
yours, Churchill.’ 

“ ‘ And from yours, Dunallan ? ’ 

‘“I do not say tliey are ; but we shall not agree on these 
subjects ; you know, my dear friend, we never did.’ 

“ ‘ Oh, Dunallan ! ’ exclaimed he, clasping his hands with the 
most energetic emotion, ‘ Would to God that we did agree on 
those most momentous subjects ! Would to God that the Being 
who lormed you so capable of honoring liim, and of winning 
others to his honor, would dispel tlie cloud in which you have 
involved your noble faculties ! But will you not at least return 
with me for a few weeks? You promised to visit me; my 
claim is superior to Aspasia’s ; she surely would suffer a claim 
of friendship if she is so noble minded — so generous.’ 

“‘Yes, I will, Churchill, on one condition — that you see 
Aspasia, and do both her and your friend justice ; she is not 
the worthless being you suppose.’ 

“ ‘ See her ! ’ interrupted Churchill, \vitli an appearance of 
gi’eater severity than I had ever before seen in him ; ‘ Why 
should I see her? Were she sensible of her degradation,’ 
added he, in a gentler tone of voice, ‘ were she an outcast from 
society, and forsaken by all the world ; were she the lowest of 
human beings, and a penitent, I should feel it a delightful duty 
to make every effort to restore her to that peace which is offered 
to the humble and broken spirit ; but of what use could I hope 
to be, and what other motive ought to induce me to see a 
2)rosperouii, admired, deluded adulteress ’ 

“ ‘ Stop ! ’ exclaimed I, ‘ you abuse my confidence.’ 

“ ‘ Forgive me, Dunallan,’ replied he, ‘I am too warm ; bud 
there Avere no conditions Avhen you promised me this visit.’ 

“ ‘ No, Churchill ; and I shall give up this, and go with you 
when you please.’ 

“ ‘ I go to-morrow,’ replied he, joyfully. 

“ ‘ What ! so soon ? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes, my profession binds me to home ; I ought not to 
leave it a moment I can avoid.’ 


172 


DTJNALLAN ; OK, 


I am ready,’ 'said I. 

“ ‘ You will write to Aspasia.’ 

“ ‘ No, I must see lier.’ 

“ He looked disappointed, and entreated me to write ; but I 
could not consent to leaving her without saying adieu in 
person. 

“ Churchill and I remained together till after dinner,, when lie 
said he must leave me, to fulfil an engagement with a friend 
whom he had accidentally met the evening before ; to preach for 
him on this evening. 

“ ‘ Preach ! ’ exclaimed I, ‘ it is not Sunday.’ 

“‘No,’ replied he, smiling; ‘but my friend thinks it useful 
to his people, particularly to those in the lowest classes, to 
lecture once every week as well as on Sunday.’ 

“ ‘ Pho, Churchill ! ’ replied I, ‘ how can you spend your 
noble eloquence on a set of old women and greasy mechanics ? 
They will not understand you.’ 

“ ‘ You forget, Dunallan, whose servant I am, and upon 
whom he bestowed his precious divine instructions. Oh, that 
you knew him, my poor friend, and the pleasures of his 
service ! ’ 

“ Churchill went to his poor people ; and I was, in the mean 
time, to go and take leave of Aspasia. We were to meet again 
in two hours at my lodgings, from whence we proposed setting 
off early in the morning. 

“ When I entered the library at Lord ’s, where I usually 

found Aspasia, and where we generally spent some time in 
conversation before we joined the party assembled in the 
drawing-room, I did not find her. I proceeded to a small bou- 
doir, where she sometimes chose to meet me. She was not 
there either. I began to fear she was displeased at my not 
having seen her that day. I joined the party in the drawing- 
room, and glancing round while I paid my compliments to the 
many friends who welcomed me with their usual flattering 
kindness, I perceived Aspasia seated apart, and apparently so 
deeply absorbed in a book as not to observe my entrance. I 
was soon beside her. 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


173 


“ ‘ Your friends must be jealous of that book, Aspasia.’ . 

“ ‘ My friends must surely wish me to be amused, and 
instructed,’ replied she, looking coldly at me, and again bending 
over the book. She was looking very lovely. She seemed 
unhappy, and the expression of sadness particularly suited her 
style of features. 

“ ‘ I must not, then, disturb your enjoyment, Aspasia. I 
must pass all this day without enjoying your conversation.’ 

“ She made no reply. I had never seen her thus before. I 
attempted several times to draw her into conversation, but in 
vain. At last she rose and left the room. I soon took my leave, 
and went in quest of her. I found her in the libraiy. She 
caught up a book when I entered, but I saw she had not been 
reading, and perceived she was in tears. I entreated her to tell 
me how I had offended her, and why she regarded me with such 
looks of coldness and displeasure. She answered, ‘ that I was 
mistaken in supposing she was otfended, and that she was 
unconscious of how she looked.’ 

“ I could wish to describe to my dear Catharine the scene 
that followed, because I might then, perhaps, a})pear less inex- 
cusably criminal in her eyes ; but even in that liope I will not 
indulge myself, in thus far trying to palliate what I ought to 
wish her, and every one, to condemn and detest. 

“ Aspasia’s power over me was so great, that, by arts which 
I will not describe, she again induced me to promise that I should 
not go with Churchill. 

“ It was very late when I returned to my lodgings. I wished 
to avoid seeing Churchill. I meant to write to him and to leave 
the house in the morning before he left the room. I did feel the 
degradation of shrinking from the sight of any man, and there 
was not another in the universe to whom I then would even 
have acknowledged myself guilty ; but ray pride never shrunk 
from avowing my errors to Churchill. It was my consciousness 
of ingratitude — my relinquishing his invaluable friendship from 
a cause in his eyes so guilty, so contemptible. It is possible to 
wish ardently, and yet be incapable of abandoning vice. This 
was my case. I entered my own house with the feelings of a 

15 * 


174 


DUN ALLAN; OH, 


criminal, and could have wished the earth to cover mo when I 
heard Churchill’s voice as he hastened to meet me. I involun- 
tarily stood still. He approached, and when he saw me he 
only sighed, or rather groaned, and exclaimed, * It is as I 
feared ! ’ 

“ ‘ Good-night, then, Churchill,’ said I, ‘ or rather farewell.’ • I 
entreated him to leave me. ‘ Nothing }’ou can say can now 
make any change,’ said I. ‘ The die is cast. I must abide by 
the consequences. The loss of your friendship I expect, Church- 
ill : I deserve to lose it.’ 

“ Churchill attempted to speak, but his emotion overpowered 
him. He looked at me with an expression almost of .agony. 
At last, grasping my hand, ‘you do not know me, Dunallan. I 
pity you from my inmost soul. The chains of vice gall and 
torture you a thousand times more than breaking them would. 
But I cannot convince you of this.’ He then left me. I could 
not go to bed, or sleep. I watched, in misery, until, at an early 
hour in the morning, I heard the carriage stop which Vas to 
convey my best and truest friend from me, perhaps forever. I 
determined to see him once more, and went to his apartment. 
I found him looking calm and serene. 

Farewell, dear Dunallan,’ said he, with even more thaii his 
usual kindness, ‘ I shall write you wiienever I get home. Write 
to me, I entreat you ; write with your Ibrmer confidence ; for- 
get what has passed since I came to town.’ 

“ I observed that there was no appearance of his having been 
in bed. 

‘‘ ‘ Churchill,’ said I, ‘ have you not slept ? ’ 

“ ‘ No, I could not sleep.’ 

“ ‘ Nor have you been in bed ? ’ 

“ ‘ No, Dunallan ; I could only think of you, and pray for 
you.’ He clasped me affectionately to his heart, and hurried 
away. 

“I felt, Avhen ,I heard his carriage drive rapidly from my 
door, as if I had been abandoned to evil. Churchill had 
succeeded, if not in reclaiming me from vice, at least in fixing a 
dagger in my conscience. I endeavored to overcome or forget 


KNOW WHAT YOU judgb:. 


175 


it. I endeavored to banish thought, but in vain. If I did 
succeed at times, it returned loaded with more gloom than ever. 
Aspasia tried every effort to soothe and amuse me ; and when 
I was Avith her, I sometimes forgot that I Avas unhappy; and 
her harp and her A’oice charmed the gloom away. But, at 
other times, Avhen I saw her in the pride of beauty, and of 
talents, and of charms, A\dthout apparently one feeling of 
dis(|uiet, Churchill’s Avords Avould return to my memory — ‘a 
prosperous, admired, and deluded adulteress ! ’ and the odious- 
ness of the character for a moment dispelled her charms, but 
only for a moment. I still loved her, but my love Avas mingled 
Avith the most Avretched feelings. I felt a gloomy pleasure in 
indulging to the utmost the harassing thoughts which tilled my 
soul. I have gazed at Aspasia Avhile she touched her harp and 
sung to me. I have entreated her to continue to sing that I 
might still gaze.; and Avhile she sought to charm me, and I ad- 
mired the i)erfection of her beauty, my imagination pictured the 
fair forehead — the blue A^eins in the transparent temples and 
cheek — the eyes so full of soul, so softly beautiful, Avith their 
dark fringes — the mouth so perfect — the Avhole form so deli- 
cate, so lovely. I have pictured them all in the grave — cold, 
stiff, blackened, food for the Avorm, mouldering to decay. 

“ Churchill wrote frequently to me, and I still loved his 
letters, and longed for them. I Avrote to him, also, and fully 
described the gloomy state of my feelings. He strongly 
recommended occupation. I believe he feared the effect on my 
intellect from the gloomy feelings I indulgcid. By his advice 
I got into Parliament. My father Avas delighted Avith my 
Avishing it, and supplied me amply Avith money, Avhile the party 
among Avhoni I lived easily pointed out a situation where that 
Avould procure my election. In this advice, Churchill shoAved 
his usual Avisdom. Tiie manly sentiments, the universal 
information, the patriotism Avhich I at least heard expressed, 
formed a painful contrast Avitli the idle, useless, unmanly life in 
which I iiidulged. I began again to feel some interest in 
existence. I had found a motive for exertion, strong enough to 
excite me to it. I read, and studied, and devoted myself to 


176 


DUNALLAN; OR, 


politics with an eagerness that delighted my party. I spoke, 
and, as a young man, was listened to with indulgence, and even 
applause. Elated with success, I willingly undertook to be the 
mouth of the party in bringing forward a motion on a subject 
Avhich it Avas expected Avould excite much discussion. I 
introduced this motion with a speech Avhich I had taken every 
pains to prepare. It Avas received Avith all the approbation my 
most sanguine friends had led me to hope ; and I was flattered 
by one of the most highly distinguished members on the op- 
posite side rising to answer it. He complimented me on my 
ingenuity and eloquence, but soon convinced even myself that I 
knew and had studied but one side of the argument. I turned 
to a friend near me, ‘ We are lost,’ Avhispered I. ‘ Lost ! Avhy ? 
do not fear.’ He rose immediately, and gave so different a 
gloss to all I had said, that my opponent seemed to have been 
arguing all along against a shadoAV of his OAvn creating ; and 
after many speeches had involved the matter in utter confusion, 
the debate Avas adjourned to the next day. Frequent scenes 
such as this disgusted me Avith politics. My sensibility to all 
that AA^as Avrong in others, seemed to increase Avitli my insensibil- 
ity to my OAvn faults ; and the corruption and subjection of every 
principle to party j)olitics, and the Avorthlessness of men in 
poAver, or seeking i)Ovver, Avere the subjects of many keen 
invectiA^es in my letters to Churchill. In one of his to me about 
this time, after replying to all my observations on human 
character, Avith his usual Avant of surprise at all I had said, and 
asking me if it did not prove those A^ery principles to be true, 
Avhich I had at college combated as throAving a degrading 
stigma on human nature, he mentioned at the end of his letter, 
that he had been confined to the house for a fortnight by a 
severe cold. His regret at not being able to fulfil his j)astoral 
duties during that period, Avas expressed in terms which I 
thought, from their extreme Avarmth, a part of that enthusiasm 
Avhich I had learned to disregard in him, and passed it over Avith 
perfect indifference. I read Avith more anxiety Avhat he said 
respecting his health, but understood that he Avas noAv recovered. 
He entered, however, in this letter more warmly into his oavii 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


177 


principles tlian he had ever before done to me ; but I hurried 
with indifference over this part of what he had written, and 
never again thought of it. A few weeks after this, on return- 
ing to Aspasia one evening aftfer a political dinner, she held a 
letter up before me. 

“ ‘ What am I to think of this ? ’ said she, playfully : ‘ A let- 
ter from a lady.’ 

“ ‘ For me?’ asked I, holding out my hand for it. 

“ ‘Yes,’ replied she, still holding it from me. 

“ It was addressed in a small female hand. 

“ ‘ I do not know the writing, Aspasia.’ 

“ ‘ Ah ! then shall I open it ? ’ 

“ ‘ Certainly ; if you choose.’ 

“ ‘ You seem so perfectly innocent,’ replied she, ‘ that I have 
lost all curiosity ; ’ and she gave me the letter. 

“ I broke the seal. The writing within was Churchill’s ; but 
so changed ! The truth flashed upon me. ‘ Churchill is gone !’ 
exclaimed I, in agony. 

“ ‘ Oh no ! you may be mistaken ; let me read this letter, 
said Aspasia, laying her hand upon it. 

“ ‘ You ! ’ exclaimed I, snatching it as from pollution. 

“ I with difficulty read the few first lines. 

“ ‘ I fear I have not sufficiently pre})ared you, Dunallan, for 
our long — our last separation.’ I could read no farther. I 
looked in dread to the conclusion of the letter. It ended with 
his farewell. ‘ Farewell, my 'dearest of friends ; before you 
receive this I shall probably know that state where all become 
secret. Could I return to convince you of the truth ! Oh ! 
Dunallan, thoughts of you cloud my soul unspeakably more, the 
more real and near an immortal state approaches. Would to 
God I could see you once more 1 ’ 

“ ‘ It may be possible ! ’ exclaimed I, rushing past Aspasia, 
who stood watching my perturbed gestures. 

“ ‘ Where do you fly to, Edward ? ’ exclaimed she, seizing 
my arm. 

“ I flung her from me and hurried, almost di»;tracted, to my 
lodgings. 


178 


DUNALLAN ; OR, 


“ In a few minutes I was on the road to Churcliill’s. The 
horses flew along as rapidly as possible; yet I urged on the 
men wiih a vehemence that seemed to terrify my servant, 
whom I had ordered to accompaiw me, without telling him the 
cause. I told him, and the poor fellow’s grief was so great as 
to attract my notice, even at that moment. He had been with 
me ever since I went to college ; and, like every one else, loved 
Churchill with a warmth which no other being excited. 

“ I shall not describe my misery during this journey, my 
dearest Catliarine. I travelled on in this wretched state, with 
all the rapidity possible, till near sunset on the second day, 
when we arrived at the village near ChurchiU’s residence. I 
stopped to incpiire the way to it ; an old man approached the 
carriage, and putting his head close to the window, asked, in a 
respectful but melancholy tone of A oice, if I had meant to go 
there ; ‘ For, perhaps you do not know, sir, the family are in 
great distress.’ 

“ I could not speak ; ray servant asked, ‘ Is Mr. Churchill 
gone ? ’ 

“ ‘ No ; but ’ 

“ I got out of the carriage ; and, following the old man’s di- 
rection, soon reached a house at a short distance. A number 
of ])eople stood round the gate, and some near the house, their 
countenances expressive of the deepest sorrow and anxiety. I 
hurried through them ; a respectable looking elderly woman 
stood at the entrance into the house, and answered, in a low and 
distressed voice, the inquiries of the people. I listened. ‘ Mr. 
Churchill is no better,’ I heard her say. I told her who I was, 
and asked if I could be admitted to see him. 

“ She looked at me with surprise, and then conducted me into 
a small parlor near the door, where, in a short time, a youth 
came to me who resembled Churchill, but whom grief seemed 
to render unable to speak. He motioned me to follow him, and 
we entered the room where my friend lay, })ale and emaciated, 
but his countenance expressive of the elevation and peace which 
reigned within. I stood still and gazed at him for a moment. 
He smiled, imd held out his hand to me. 


KNO^V AVHAT YOU JUDGE. 


179 


“ ‘ T>e composed, dear Dunallan. I have much to say 
to you. 1 entreat 'you, do not rob me of the little strength 
left me by exciting any emotion. Will you leave ns for a 
short time, my dear madam ? ’ said he to a lady who sat by 
his bed. 

“ She left the room accompanied by the youth. Church- 
ill looked after them, and sighed deeply. ‘ My poor 
mother ! ’ 

“ I entreated him to prove to me that I had not lost 
his friendship, by suffering me, if possible, to do away any 
thing with regard to his mother which could excite his 
anxiety. 

“ lie shook his head. ‘ No human power can do away 
what I dread her affection will suffer at my death, Dunallan ; 
Jjut no more of this.’ He attempted to regain his composure, 
but could not : and when I saw him moved, I could no longer 
control my grief, and throwing myself on his bed, gave vent 
to the agony I endured. Churchill put his arm 'around me, 
and pressed me affectionately to him. For a short time 
neither of us spoke ; at last Churchill said, in a low, calm 
voice, 

“ ‘ Look, Dunallan, at that scene ! ” 

“I ‘raised my head, and turned to where he pointed; it was 
to the window opposite his bed, from whence was seen a bright 
and glorious sunset. 

“ ‘ Well, Churchill,’ replied I, turning from it, ‘ I see it, and 
I hate its beams.’ 

“ He sighed deeply. ‘ You hate all light, Dunallan; you fly 
from it, and in flying from it, you fly from the only source of 
happiness ; for a mind in darkness must be a wretched one. 
My friend, will you never believe me ? ’ 

I do believe you, Churchill. I do believe that a dark, and 
gloomy, and guilty mind, must be wretched. I must believe it, 
because I feel it ; but you never knew it, Churchill. You may 
love that light whicli you yourself resemble. Your “ path has 
shone,” in the language of your Scriptures, “brighter and 
brighter to the perfect day,” and must, like that sun, set in 


180 


dunallan; or, 


glory, without knowing the misery of guilt, or the impossibility 
of returning from it.’ 

“ ‘ Do you really think me so perfect, Dunallan ?’ 

“ ‘ I do from my soul, Churchill. You surely have no fears 
— no dread. If there is a God, he must reward a life like 
yours with the purest bliss.’ 

“ ‘ Stop, my friend, you shock me ! ’ exclaimed Churchill ; 

‘ let me tell you why I liave no fear — no dread — for my soul 
is in perfect peace, not as you suppose from a consciousness of 
innocence. Had I nothing but that, or even the highest degree 
of perfection to which any human being ever attained, I should 
not feel myself in a state to enter the presence of that Being 
whose character is described in revelation. Our ideas of per- 
fection, my dear Dunallan, are miserably low and erroneous. 
We form them from comparing human beings with hurnai^ 
beings, not from comparing our hearts and lives with those pure 
laws which revelation teaches are the only standard of per- 
fection. To that standard which reaches the thoughts and mo- 
tives of the inmost recesses of the soul, no being ever attained. 
My heart and life, my dear Dunallan, cannot bear to be tried 
by that standard, and from such a trial I should shrink without 
'A ray of hope. No heart, no life can bear it, but His, who 
descended from heaven, and took our nature, that he might in 
our place fulfil, in heart and life, every precept of that all-per- 
fect law. He it is, Dunallan — He who offers his-salvation to 
you — to me — to all who ask it, who, while on our earth, used 
this touching style of reproach: “Ye will not come unto me 
that yemiay have life.” He it is in whom is all my trust — all 
my hopes of happiness, and of complete freedom fiom every 
taint of mortal impurity. I long to know that state, Dunallan. I 
long to put off* this weak, sinful, dark mortality, wdiieli separates 
my soul from Him who is near me, and around me, and within 
me : Him, whom having not se(;n I love, and feel a joy in lov- 
ing that is unspeakable ! ’ He seemed lost in his own feelings, 
and his fine countenance looked more than human. 

“ ‘ Can this be delusion ! ’ thought I, as I gazed at him. He 
soon recollected himself. 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


181 


“(‘^Dunallan,’ said he, ‘do you still admire the morality of the 
New Testament?’’ 

“ ‘ I do, Churchill.’ 

“ ‘ And his character who is there described ? ' 

“ ‘ Most assuredly I do.’ 

“ ‘ Then, Dunallan, answer me candidly ; why are you not a 
Christian ? ’ 

“ I hesitated. ‘ I do not say, Churchill, that I am not a Chris- 
tian ; but, indeed, if the morality of the New Testament is 
necessary to being one, I may fairly own, that to me it is im- 
practicable.’ 

“ ‘ It is necessary, my friend, but it is so as an effect : the 
great end of Christianity is to purify the heart, to renovate the 
powers of the soul, and to give a new principle of life; but we 
'must believe in Him who is the source of this principle of life; 
we must come to Him to receive it, before we can obey the pure 
precepts of Christianity ; just (as He himself illustrates the sub- 
ject) as the branch must receive nourishment from the vine 
before it can produce fruit. If you really believe in Him you 
must love Him ; and if you love, you will, you must obey ; but 
the love and obedience are both his gifts.’ 

“ ‘ My dear Churchill,’ replied I, ‘ I wish from my inmost 
soul I could comprehend you, but I do not — I cannot — and 
you are exhausted ’ (for a hectic flush glowed on his check, and 
he spoke with difliculty). ‘Spare yourself, my dearest friend; 
just prescribe to me; I promise to do whatever you desire me, 
if a being so weak dare promise. I shall not return to Aspasia 
— that charm is, I hope, broken forever.’ He pressed my hand 
in his with affectionate warmth. 

“ ‘ Dear Dunallan, I trust implicitly in every promise you 
make at this moment. You remove, the only real grief vdiich 
embittered my last moments. Promise me, also, to read this 
volume,’ added he, laying his hand on a Bible which lay on his 
bed, ‘ promise to read it with attention. I have constantly 
thought of you while reading it, ever since I knew you, Dun- 
allan. You will find that I have attempted to answer those 
16 


182 


DUNALLAN ; OR, 


objections which I supposed might arise in your mind/ ^I'he 
book was interleaved, and full of his writing. 

“ ‘ What unwearied friendship ! ’ exclaimed I. ‘ Oh, Church- 
ill, w'hat will life be without it ? ’ 

“ He was moved, but struggled to suppress his emotion. I 
felt an indescribable desolation at heart. 

“ ‘ One duty I must remind you of,’ said Churchill, after a 
short pause. ‘ Poor Aspasia ! ’ I gazed at him — he continued, 
looking steadfastly but mildly at me. ‘ You ought not in reality — 
in justice, to regard her with any feelings but those of pity. 
Your education, my friend, made it impossible for you to be so 
guilty without remorse and misery. Aspasia seems to be 
insensible to the nature of her crime. Her mind appears to be 
in Utter darkness — and her heart follows the bent of its passions, 
without any check from a conscience in which there seems to 
be no light, — at least this is your description of her, Dunallan ; 
if it is just, I fear there is little hope of reaching that conscience, 
while she is surrounded by the illusions of flattery ; — but when 
her day of adversity comes, my dear Dunallan, remember that 
her soul, too, is immortal ; and that as you have assisted in 
drawing her into guilt, every consideration binds you to leave 
no means untried to save her from destruction. Perhaps her 
separation from you may prove that day of adversity to her: — 
you ought to I’cjoice if it does, j)rovided she returns to virtue, 
and if you can be the means of showing her the path to it. I 
hope, Dunallan, you will soon learn this secret yourself; — I 
hope you will soon know Him, whom to know is eternal life — 
whom to know is rest, purity, peace, light, happiness, inexpres- 
sible ! inconceivable ! ’ He seemed again lost in feelings, which 
appeared too powerful for his weak frame, and which gave his 
countenance an expression of joy so heartfelt, and of peace so 
profound, that I felt almost willing at that moment to suffer the 
beloved spirit to depart. His eyes again fell on me, and he 
smiled with his usual sweet serenity. 

“ ‘ My dear Dunallan, I cannot describe to you the happiness 
I enjoy at this moment.’ * 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


183 


‘ And yet, Churchill, you seem to be in pain, and breathe 
with much difficulty 

“ ‘ Oh ! that is nothing ! ’ interrupted he, •' let my breathing be 
still tighter, and my pulse flutter on ; I now wish for no delay. 
There was but one care which hung so heavy on my soul, I 
shrunk from death. I had not faith to cast it on His mercy, 
who in this precious volume invited me so to do; and He has in 
His gentleness condescended to show me ere I depart, that he is 
the hearer of prayer. My beloved Dunallan, you were that 
painful, heavy care, and you have been brought to me. You 
have promised to abandon that course which was leading you to 
everlasting darkness. You have promised to study this volume, 
which will guide you to that state to which I now hasten. I 
have no farther fears. My gracious, my glorious Master will 
accomplish the renovation of your spirit. We shall meet in 
his- kingdom. Tell my dear Walderford all this. He laments 
that he cannot be with me ; tell him I die in perfect peace. 
My mother has placed the treasures of her heart in heaven ; her 
earthly provision is sure, — she will lead her children in her 
steps. I know who is to be appointed to succeed me in the 
charge of my people. I know he will feel a still deeper interest 
tlian I did in their everlasting concerns. My friend is reclaimed ! 
Gracious Lord, I thank thee ! ’ He sunk back quite exhausted ; 
I thought he was gone, and rang violently, then raised and sup- 
ported him on my breast. " 

“ His mother entered, accompanied by a woman whose coun- 
tenance expressed the deepest grief ; they were both greatly 
alarmed ; but though Churchill could not speak he smiled, and 
motioned to them to approach. 

“ ‘ Let me relieve you,’ said his mother to me. ‘ No, no,’ said 
Churchill, faintly ; he seemed pleased to lean his head on my 
breast. He took his mother’s hand, and tried to speak, but 
could not. 

“ ‘ You need repose, my dear Edmund,’ said she. 

“ ‘ I feel repose,’ replied he, in a low voice. 

“ ‘ Thank God, you always do, Edmund.’ 

“ ‘ Suffer me, dear madam, to watch his repose,’ said I, dread- 
ing to be torn for a moment from him. 


184 


DUNALLAN ; OR, 


“ She looked at me, and then at him, and attempted to smile, 
but burst into tears. 

“ ‘ I believe I must be left with you, nurse,’ said Churchill to 
the woman who had entered witli his mother, ‘ and attempt to 
recover a little strength for one more evening service with you 
ail.’ 

“ I reluctantly yielded my precious charge, and followed Mrs. 
Churchill to an apartment where her family were assembled. 
It was a numerous one ; the youth whom I had already seen, 
and six boys^and girls still younger. 

“ ‘ Are all these the brothers and sisters of Churchill ? ’ 
asked I. 

“ ‘ All but this boy,’ replied Mrs. Churchill, ‘ he is my child, 
and Edmund’s brother by adoption : he is an orphan.’ She 
introduced them all to me by name. ‘ Edmund has been 
brother, and father, and tutor, and friend, to them all,’ added 
she. 

“ Mrs. Churchill spoke with composure, but the children 
could not restrain their feelings. George, the eldest, left the 
room ; and the orphan boy threw himself on the floor, and hid- 
ing his face, wept bitterly. 

“ ‘ Poor George,’ said his mother, ‘ he can appreciate his 

brother’s character ; I know not how he will bear .’ She 

stopped ; but recovering herself, said, ‘ God can give strength 
suited to our day of weakness.’ 

“ Grief soon does away all ceremony ; we were in a short 
time perfectly intimate, and I felt a sweet pleasure in having 
the little brothers and sisters of Churchill in iny bosom, and' 
hanging upon me. Mrs. Churchill spoke quite freely to me ; 
and when George returned, and saw that we all wept, he staid 
and gave vent to his grief also without control. 

“ Churchill soon sent for us ; his countenance brightened on 
our entrance, but he appeared extremely ill. All gathered 
round his bed, and the children seemed to have their particular 
places near him. The youngest slipped down from my arms, 
climbed upon his bed, and getting as near him as she could, put 
her little face close to his. He smiled, and kissed the little rosy 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


185 


cheek, then looked round on all the children with an expression 
of melanclioly pleasure. The servants entered, but turned 
away their faces when. they saw the pale looks of their young 
master, and the little head that leaned upon him. Ilis poor 
nurse sunk upon her knees, and concealed her face upon his 
bed. Mrs. Churchill, pale as marble, sat with her eyes fixed 
upon her son. lie, with great difficulty })rayed a few short but 
fervent sentences for those around him, then looking at me, and 
faintly smiling, he^said: 

“ ‘ I cannot express what I wish.’ Then telling George what 
part of vSeripture he desired to have read to him, he looked for 
a moment at his mother, then at the children, and then at me. 
I held his hand in mine ; it was cold, and the pulse fluttering^ 
He pressed mine feebly, then turning away his face, laid his 
other hand on his eyes, and seemed to listen with the deepest 
attention. When George read that passage from our Lord’s 
prayer on the eve of his suflTering, ‘ Father, I will that they also 
wdiom thou hast given me be with me where I am, ’ Church- 

ill raised his hand for a moment from his face, and looked 
towards heaven. A smile of rapture was on his lips ; he again 
covered his eyes : George read on in a broken voice, but he 
betrayed no farther emotion, llis hand at last fell gently from 
his face. Mrs. Churchill uttered a scream of terror on seeing 
the pale and fixed look ; he did not hear it ; the pure spirit was 
at last free. 

“ I will not, my dear Catharine, describe the scene that fol- 
lo^ved — indeed, I cannot. INIrs. Churchill was a Christian, and 
had the supports of one. I had no supports, and nature and 
reason yielded for a short time to the agony of my feelings ; 
thank Heaven, it was but for a short time. 

“ It v-as morning when the confusion of my ideas began to 
subside, and the dreadful truth gradually returned to my recol- 
lection. I started from the bed where I had been laid, and 
perceiving my poor worn-out servant asleep, I softly left the 
room, determining once more to look on that beloved coun- 
tenance, in which I had so long read the soul of Churchill. I 
saw a door half open, and enrered the room ; but could scarcely 

IG* 


186 


dunallan; or, 


believe I was in the apartment of my departed friend. There 
was none of the mockery of death, all was as if nothing unusual 
had happened. A window was open, into which had strayed 
the dowering branch of a white lilac that grew against it, and 
now filled the apartment with its perfume. I hoped I had only 
been dreaming of misery, and approached the bed. The cur- 
tains were closed ; but, on gently drawing them aside, I felt the 
reality of my wretchedness when I discovered ChurchiH’s 
mother leaning over his pale corpse. She started on seeing 
me, but held out her hand with a smile that resrembled Church- 
ill’s. 

“ ‘ He is still himself,’ said she, turning again to gaze on his 
countenance ; ‘ how placid ! how profoundly peaceful ! I would 
not bring him back for a thousand worlds. Oh God, only 
permit me soon to follow him ! Yet I am wrong in this wish : 
but I feel so helpless now when that countenance which used 
to animate my heart is so still ! ’ she shuddered ; ‘ Oh God, sup- 
port me ! ’ 

I shall not attempt to describe the day that followed this 
morning, my dear Catharine, nor the waking of the morning 
after. Mrs. Churchill’s composure, when I met her on this 
secbnd morning, surprised me. It was at the door of my 
friend’s apartment: she had locked it, but held the key to me 
smiling faintly. 

“ ‘ You wish again to view that forsaken cottage of clay ; the 
sj)irit is now gone, indeed ! we must form new ideas of his state, 
and learn how to follow him there. May God give you the 
support he has bestowed on me,’ added she, ‘ it is sufficient even 
for the widow and the childless ! ’ 

“There was an expression almost of delight in her counte- 
nance as she spoke. 

“ ‘ Will you join us soon ? ’ she asked, as we parted ; I prom- 
ised, and left her, almost deprecating any support, which seemed 
to me so unnatural. 

“ ‘ And can the mother of Churchill so soon desire to mourn 
without the bitterness of grief for him ! ’ thought I, as I entered 
his silent room, and, with a sickness of heart, uncovered the 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


187 


pale face of my friend. She had said right; the impression 
of his exalted spirit had left his earthly tenement ; the features, 
though still beautiful, bore only the straitened character of 
death. I- remained contemplating his clianged countenance 
■with the most wretched and gloomy feelings, till I was inter- 
rupted by some one tapping softly at the door of the room. I 
went to it, and found one of the little sisters of my friend. 

“ ‘ Mamma sent me to fetch you,’ said the little thing in a 
whisper ; but though there was an expression of concern on her 
infantine countenance, it bore the bloom of health and ])eace, 
and she smiled when she invited me to go with her. 

‘ So you also have learned not to feel, little creature,’ said I 
reproachfully to the child, and putting away the little hand she 
had laid on mine. She looked hurt and abashed at my reproof, 
but said nothing, and lingered behind me. After going a few 
steps I turned to make up for my harshness to the sweet child. 
She had stolen into her brother’s i-oom. I softly followed, and 
])erceived her, with an expression of fondness, i)ress her little 
cheek to his. 

“ ‘ So you still love your brother,’ said I. 

“ ‘ This is not Edmund now,’ replied the child ; ‘ Edmund is 
in heaven, and this is only the house in which his soul lived ; 
and mamma says this body must be laid under the turf and 
flowers beside papa’s, to sleep for a long, long time, till papa 
and Edmund return to them again, when they shall awake and 
go to heaven too, and Edmund is quite, quite happy now.’ 

“ ‘ And was Edmund not happy before ? ’ asked I. 

•“ The child hesitated, — then said, as if she told me some- 
thing very sacred, and looking mournfully at the pale counte- 
nance as she spoke, — ‘ I think not quite, for I have seen him 
Aveep.’ ^ 

‘‘ ‘ Weep ! ’ repeated I. 

“ ‘ Yes. When he used to bring me into this room and 
bolt the door, and kneel down, and make me kneel down beside 
him, and then pray to God ; he sometimes wept when he 
said, — Oh God ! be a Father to this child, and teach her to 
know tliee, — and then he used to take me into his bosom, and 
''nenk to me nbout God : and he used to do this with us all.’ 


188 


dunallan; or, 


I could not stand this, and exclaimed aloud, ‘ Oh ! God of 
this house, be my God.’ I started at my own prayer ; my 
whole character flashed on my recollection. An adulterer ! 
against conviction ; against the strongest remonstrances of him 
who now lay before me — impossible ! I attempted to over- 
come the feelings the innocent recital of the child had inspired, 
and to recall my former opinions respecting Churchill’s religion. 
‘ It was enthusiasm,’ thought I, ‘ a happy superstition, natural 
to innocent and glowing minds,’ but I could not convince my- 
self. ‘ I must be laid where he is ere I know ; — and then — 
but whatever is then disclosed, this world is now a hateful blank 
to me,’ thought I, as I turned away from the cold remains of the 
being on earth I had most really loved. 

“ I joined Mrs. Cliurchill and her young group. She still ap- 
peared composed ; but when we were all seated as she wished, 
and she attempted to preside as usual, her composure entirely 
forsook her. She struggled, however, with her emotion, and at 
last so far overcame it as to /do all she wished, though she spoke 
none. 

“ After an almost untasted breakfast, mixed with tears, and 
audible sobs, Mrs. Churchill, pale as death, and scarcely daring 
to trust her voice to say a few words, gave each of the children 
some occupation necessary in their mournful circumstances. 
She then held out some letters to me, and said hurriedly, 

“ ‘ Will the task be too painful ? I cannot answer all the 
letters and inquiries I have received. AVill you assist me ? ’ 

“ I immediately took them, and sat down to my melancholy 
task. I was surprised at the number, and deep interest of the 
inquiries respecting ray departed friend. How could he in that 
remote corner, and in so short a time, have acquired so many, 
and such warm friends ? How could he have obliged sq many ? 
lor each letter expressed the deepest consciousness of obligation, 
as well as the most earnest anxiety for his recovery. 

“ ‘ Before Mr. Churchill came to this neighborhood,’ .said 
one, ‘ I had sought for happiness in vain. The phantom still 
seemed at a distance, though I imagined that I possessed all 
that was necessary to bring it to my bosom. He taught me 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


189 


where to seek it, and how to find it, and now I thirst after a 
delusion no longer, but possess the reality, or at least know its 
source.’ * 

“ ‘ Mr. Churchill,’ said another, ‘ though young enough to be 
my grandchild, is my spiritual father ; and is he to go before 
me ! W ould to God I might lay down my useless age in the 
grave, to preserve him to his family, and his people ! but our 
irreparable loss will be his unspeakable gain.’ 

‘‘‘Assure Mr. Churchill,’ said anothei*, ‘that his unwearied 
kindness and forbearance and gentleness, has not been so en- 
tirely thrown away on me as I fear he suspects. He knows I 
love him; but he* thinks I hate the strictness of his virtues ; 
but it is for them I really love him ; and though he knows it 
not, he has never recommended a book to me that I have not 
read with my deepest attention ; nor warned me against an 
opinion that I have not immediately suspected its soundness ; 
nor given me an advice that I have not at least attempted to 
follow; nor a reproof -that did not bind my aflections closer to 
him.’ 

“ Such passages were in every letter. Many seemed to bo 
from people of the lower classes. Mrs. Churchill wished ■ them 
all to be replied to respectfully and kindly ; and that those who 
had so, highly valued the principles taught by her son, should 
be made acquainted witli their complete efficacy, in supporting 
him through his last moments. 

“ This was a painful day ; I would have shrunk from every 
thing but indulgence of my grief ; but I felt ashamed of being 
weaker than the mother who had lost her support, and first 
earthly hope : and was left to struggle alone with both grief 
and cares. She gave herself no indulgence. 

“ On the fourth day my beloved friend’s remains were laid in 
the grave — a scene so mournful, I do not wish to recall it; yet 
it showed me still more fully how Churchill had been beloved. 
Indeed this impression is almost all I recollect ; for in attempt- 
ing to suppress my own emotions before so many witnesses, I 
was incapable of observing what passed around me. One cir- 
cumstance I will recall. When the service was over and the 


190 


dl'nallan; or, 


coffin was lowered into its narrow house, an old man, with his 
gray liead uncovered, read aloud what was marked on the lid — 
‘ Aged twenty-four,’ and clasping his withered hands, exclaimed, 
‘ He is laid low, and an old cumberer of the ground is left ! 
But thou doest all things aright,’ added he, laising his eyes 
dimmed with tears to heaven. Poor George, the bi*other of my 
friend, whose compQsure hitherto had surprised me, tfl the ex- 
clamation of the old man, joined to the chilling sound of the 
mould thrown on the coffin, fainted, and fell lifeless into my 
arms. The poor youth was carried away, but I could not go 
until I had seen the last melancholy duties concluded. When 
all was over, a young man, of very graceful* appearance, whom 
I had not before observed, a[)proached, and with a look of much 
emotion and concern, offered his arm to me. I felt very faint, 
and kindly accepted the stranger’s kindness. AVe lingered at 
the grave after ail was finished, indeed every one seemed reluc- 
tant to leave the spot. At last we slowly turned from the nar- 
row abode of my friend, my counsellor, my all. The young 
stranger walked with me to the entrance of Mrs. Churchill’s 
house. He inquired with great interest about her, and her 
young family ; and attempted to say something regarding his 
acquaintance with Churchill, but was soon too much affected to 
proceed. On taking leave, he named himself to me — ^he Mr. 
Clanmar, whom, my dear Catharine, you are acquainted with. 
We had known each other as children, but since that, time we 
laid not met. He was now on a visit to a maternal uncle 
in that part of England. His manners and sympathy were 
pleasing to me, and we parted mutually desiring to meet again. 

“ I had nothing now to detain me at , but an earnest de- 

sire to be useful if possible, to the mother of my friend. She 
was perfectly open with me on every subject : but though I 
found that the independence Churchill had deemed secured to 
his mother, was extremely limited, her spirit was too like that 
of her son for any one to presume, even to insinuate a wish to 
interfere, in her private concerns. She saw, however, that I 
was dissatisfied with what she told me of her circumstances and 
future plans, and said, smiling sadly — 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


191 


“ ‘ You will often, I hope, Mr. Dunallan, be able to judge for 
yourself, whether we are comfortable. You, I am sure, will 
not forget us. Perhaps,’ added she, ‘ you think me proud. I 
read in your countenance that you do, and I fear I must confirm 
you in that opinion of me, when I assure you nothing would be 
more painful to me, than any attempt, either open or disguised, 
to deprive me of that feeling of independence, which perhaps I 
value too highly, but w hicli has been made dear to me by pecu- 
liar circumstances. You, IMr. Dunallan, will not condemn me, 
1 believe, for having preferred these circumstances to any other, 
with such a companion as Edmund’s father, when I tell you that 
your departed 'friend greatly resembled, and, excellent and 
amiable as he was, did not excel that father in any quality of 
the head or heart. I married Mr. Churchill, not against the 
consent of my family, for he would not have married me on 
such terms ; but their consent was mixed with disappointment 
and pity, and dread of our becoming dependent. Thank God that 
lias not hitherto, in the slightest degree been the case — less so 
than even those very friends have wished. They asked my 
children from me, when they saw them so lovely and engaging. 
They wish€*d to adopt our Edmund, but his father would never 
consent to part with one of his treasures, or for any worldly 
advantage remove them from the influence of those principles 
which he thought more valuable than all that the world otfered 
without them. Edmund pursued his father’s wishes — indeed 
they were his own ; and to this moment we have been wholly 
independent of friends. I wish to continue so. I trust I shall 
be enabled to lead my children aright. This now is' the use of 
my existence. When it is accomplished, I shall be permitted to 
depart, and be with those who have the best and greatest share 
of my poor affections.’ 

“ I could say nothing to all this. There remained only one 
means of showing my love and esteem for my departed friend, 
— the poor consolation of marking the spot where he lay; and 
even this was denied me by the affectionate ardor of his pa- 
rishioners, who had requested his mother’s permission, on the 
day of his funeral, to erect a monument to his memory and use- 


192 


DUNALLAN ; OR, 


fulness among them ; and I was only permitted to be a sharer 
in this last tribute of affection. 

“ I prepared to leave and to go, I knew not whither ; and 

I cared not. I detested the idea of home, and determined not 
to go where it was possible I should meet Aspasia. All other 
parts of the creation were alike to me. Clanmar was much 

with me the few days I remained at . He, however, had no 

power as yet to engage my attention or affections. I became 
every moment more abstracted, and only longed for solitude 
wherever 1 could find it. Clanmar wished to travel. He pro- 
posed it to me. I liked tlie plan, because I would have liked 
any change ; but the idea of his being with me did not please 
me ; yet lie was so feelingly attentive to me, so considerate and 
indulgent to my humor, that I could not help being grateful, and 
agreed to do as he wished. He seemed deliglited, and imme- 
diately set off for London to make every necessary preparation. 

I took a melancholy leave of Mrs. Churchill, and her sweet and 
interesting family, the night after Clanmar’s departure, and left 
her house very early in the morning after — a beautiful morning 
in spring. All was in complete contrast to my feelings — all 
looked smiling and gay.* The fields were fresh and beautiful. 
The birds, the children, as I passed their cottages, all seemed 
only awakened to happiness. Even Churchiirs grave, Avhen I 
went for the last time to lay my aching head and breast upon it 
was gilded by the rays of a bright morning sun ; but no gloom 
was ever near him. 

“ It was towards evening when I stopped at a small inn in the 

little town of . My thoughts during this solitary day had 

been most painfully gloomy. Like all who are young in mis- 
fortune, I felt as if heaven had marked me out for suffering ; 
and the gay appearance of nature around me seemed to mock 
at the grief that was inflicted : while recollections of Churchill, 
his ardent affection, his wise and gentle admonitions, his friend- 
ship so tried, so perfect, lost to me for ever, overwhelmed my 
exhausted and rebellious spirit. 

“ Gloomy and miserable, I followed my conductor to a little , 
parlor of the inn, and desiring that I might not be disturbed, 


KNOW WJIAT YOU. JUDGE. 


193 


coiilinucd to pursue uiy wretched thouglits. The noise of the 
liouse did not interrupt me, i)ut tliat of a carriage driving 
rapidly into the court did. I dreaded meeting any one I knew, 
and impatiently' approached the window to dis(*over if I had 
any cause for this fear.. It was an .open carriage, in which 
there were two ladies and a gentleman. One lady’s face was 
turned away, hut I knew the figure too well, and started back 
from the window. It was Aspasia. I cannot' describe the 
confusion of my feelings — ray promise to Churchill — recollec- 
tions of Aspasia — friendship — honor — tenderness — yet my 
llrst impulse was to fly from her. But I dared not venture to 
pass near lier carriage. I had promised never again to see 
lier. The expression of heavenly joy which animated Church- 
ill’s countenance when I made that promise, was again before 
me, and 'the scenes that followed. I became calm, and deter- 
mined to remain where I was till she departed, and then hasten 
to whei’e I should have no dread of ever beholding her. • I 
waited in anxious expectation to hear the carriage drive away, 
but in vain 5 and I began to dr('ad an intention on . her part 
to i-(;main at the inn during the night, and determined, should 
that he the case, to leave the house as soon as I po.ssibly could, 
without being seen by Aspasia. But a more severe exertion 
than, flight was destined for me. After listening anxiously to 
every sound, for what appeared to me a tedious length of time, 
my servant entered, and .presented me with Aspasia’s card, 
saying,. ‘The hwly was in a parlor below, that she could only 
stay for a few moments, and deslixid to see me.’ 

“‘And who informed thel lady that I was,. here?’ asked I, 
angrily. . j. 

/ii“ She had seen my servant and recognized him. , . 

“ I felt mys(df a coward. I dared not go to Aspasia. I 
dared not trust myself to see her ; indeed, I had promised I 
neverewould. I could not send a^ message. I dreaded the 
effects should suddenly break to her my intention to part 
from. her for ever. I hesitated. in a state almost beside myself, 
but hearing a noise below, and dreading that she herself might 
come in search of me, I desired my servant to admit no person 

17 


194 


dunallan; oii, 


whatever, and hurriedly wrote the following few words to 
Aspasia : — ■ 

“ ‘ I cannot see you, Aspasia. If you knew how I am 
changed you wouhl not wish to see me ; my most ardent 
desire is, that you should forget my miserable existence. I 
shall soon write to you more fully — quite fully. In the mean 
time spare me.’ , .r , . n 

“ I sealed my note and sent it, desiring my servant to follow 
me as soon as he could get horses, and determined to leave the 
inn on foot to escape the possibility of meeting Asi)asia. I 
had to > pass the parlor where she was, and approached it 
softly. ‘ A\niat 2)Oor and shrinking creatures guilt makes us! 
I heard her voice exclaim, 

“‘What! a note ! where is Mr. Dunallan ? ’ i i ^ 

Gone, madam,’ re2)lied my servant. I started at 'the hajq^y 
falsehood. 

' “ ‘ Gone ! gone ! how ! inqmssible ! ’ exclaimed As[)asia. 

. “‘My master has left the house on foot,’ replied niy ser- 
vant, whom I never before detected in a falsehood, ‘ and has 
ordered me to follow with the carriage as soon as I can get 
horses.’ - ; . 

“ “I thought Aspasia had returned into the j^arlor, and aj^- 
proached softly to pass the door ; she stood in the entrance, a 
little turned from me, and was islowly reading my note. I 
{ulvanced another step ; she started, and turned around ; I 
stoj)ped, as if transfixed to the sjwt ; she became de'adly jaile, 
but with a look of disdain, ^vaved her hand for me to [uiss, 
then regarding me more fixedly, her countenance softened into 
an exjnession of pity and tenderness. 

“ ‘ How changed indeed ! ’ exclaimed she, looking earnestly 
at me, and then observing my decq) mourning, she burst int(» 
tears. ■<;.;! . 

“‘Forgive me, Dunallan,’ said she, ‘but why do you shun 
me ? “ Do* you think I am only formed to amuse you in the day 
of prosi'ierity ? You do not know^ me, Dunallan,’ added she, 
passionately. ‘I do know you, Aspasia,’ rejilied I, scarcely 
.daring to trusf. myself to look .at .her: ‘I kujow you are too 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


19o 

liublc, too £^eiierous, too but this is not a place in which' 1 

can explain myself/ observing people approaching. ‘ Come 
into this room a moment then/ said she. 

“ ‘ No, no, I must not, I cannot. I sliall write you the instant 
it is in my power.’ , ,,, 

‘“l>ut when shall we again meet, Dunallan.^’ . . 

“‘I cannot tell : I will write every thing.’ ( 

“ ‘ You must not leave me ! ’ exclaimed she, quite regardless 
of the people who Avere collecting near us, ‘ you shall not leave 
me, till you have fixed a time for us to meet again.’ 
“‘Impossible, I:ain[going abroad.’ 

‘“Abroad! when? Do you go alone ? ’ asked she, eagerly. 

“ I knew not Avhat re[)ly to make, and, annoyed by the people 
Avho gazed at us, I peremptorily ordered them away, then seizing 
Aspasia’s hand, led her into the parlor, and said, as coolly as 
I could, ‘ I go abroad immediately ; a friend goes Avith me. AV^e 
shall not return for Some time. Aspasia, Ave ought, and avc 
must forget each other. But alloAV me to Avrite, I cannot 
speak.’ , ■ ' .■! ; i 

“ She could not either, but became excessively pale. v* 

“ ‘ FarcAvell/ I attempted to say, but could scarcely articulate 
the Avord. She boAved coldly. I Aveiit toAvards the door, and 
opened it, Avhen I Avas arrested, by a deep sob. I turned round, 
and saAv Aspasia just fainting. I fleAv to her, and received her 
in my arms as she fell. I gazed at her pale and lovely counte- 
nance as it lay deprived of animation ; ‘ and .this is my Avork 1 ’ 
thought I, ‘ and can it be virtue to leave her to suffer ? No, it 
is cruel, detestable selfishness.’ . I laid her on a sofa, and rung, 
for iissistance, and then, regardless of Avhat happened, supported 
the lifeless form in my arms. The i room Avas soon filled Avith 
people, Avho looked strangely at me, but I cared not. TIkj lady 
and gentleman also entered aa’Iio had been in the carriage Avitli 
Aspasia. I kncAv neither. They looked surprised and alarmed, 
and the gentleman eyed me with looks of suspicion and dis- 
pleasure, and api)roaching, haughtily offered to relieve me from 
my charge. ‘ 

“ ‘ I shall apjdy for relief Avhen I Avish for it/ replied I, Avith 


dunallan; ok. 


rJG 


equal liauglitines?, ‘ and when I sec any one I deem entitled to 
otr -r it ; ’ and then giving orders to those around me to bring 
assistance, I continued supporting As'pasia, until the efforts of 
the ‘lady Avho had been her companion restored animation. She 
opened her eyes, and looked languidly around ; but, at lengtli, 
fixing them on the gentleman, who, after my angry reply, had 
stood silent at some distance, she started, 

“ ‘ My brother ! aiKHwhere is ,’ she did not })ronounee 

my name, but, looking eagerly round, she discovered her own 
situation, and whose anus supported her. An expression of 
pleasure for a moment brightened her countenance, but instantly 
changed to alarm on again turning to the liow stern aspect of 
her brother. She started from me, and seizing his liand, 

“ ‘ Augustus,’ Said she, ‘ I will explain all this to you ; ’ then 
turning to me, ‘ Now', my friend, I shall detain you no longer.’ 
Slie seemed anxious I should depart. ^ • , . !• * ; . s 

“ Her brother coldly withdrew^ his hand from hers, and desir- 
ing every one to leave the ro'oni, as there wais no farther need 
of assistance, also w ith a hauglity look included me in the num- 
ber. Tlie others instantly obeyed ;• I stood still, returning his 
haughty looks ' wdtli interest. Aspasia api)roached' me, aiid, 
with an imploring expression of countenance, ‘'I entreat you to 
leave me,’ said she. ’• r . , . . 

“ SSince you wish it I certainly will, Aspasia, but 1 'remain 
here this night ; ’ and, throwing my card on the table as I 2 )assed 
her brother, I slow'ly left the room. • * • ; 

“ AVheir again shut up alone in my apartment, I 'dared iiot 
trust myself to think ; but, pacing hurriedly fi'bm otic end to 
the other of its narrow bounds, repeated to myself an 'hundred 
limes, ‘The die is cast! my fate is determined; I cannot draw 
back ! ’ 'When a recollection of Churchill would liave returned 
to me, I repelled it with' terror; it' 'brought distraction with it. 
I continued pacing my room, and listening to every noise, 'as -I 
expected a messenger from the brother of Aspasia — but 'none 
came. Night drew on, and I knew not what to dread or hoj^e. 
I rung for my servant, and inquired if the party still remained 
in the house. I was answ^ered in the alhrmative ; that they had 


KNO^V WllxVr YOU J UL> Gi:. 


107 


continued ylnit up togetlier with Aspasia ever sinCe I lell lliein, 
and had given orders that they should hot be disturbed. It was 
supposed that they would remain for the iiight. My servant also 
informed nleythat the lady who? aeeompanied' Aspasia was the 
wife ot her brother, Colonel Hartford. 1 knew the* 'character ’of 
this lady. I had often heard> Aspasia speak of her as one ' of 
those plain, .sensible, correct/ Avomen, whom'ishe never could 
make comprehend Avhat she felt on any subject.!'! ij* libw began 
to feel .for .Aspasia more than for myself. 'AVhat might she not 
suffer from an angry brother, iind a sister .<56 unlike herself!’ ‘ 1 
almost determined to break in upon them,^ and offer her my pro- 
tection, but dreaded adding to her ' difficulties. It Avas past 
tAvelA'e o’clock. Avhen. my ’servant brought me the following note: 
y ‘ Colonel Hartford rectucsts a few minute.s convei’.sation With 
Hunallan at seven o’clock to-morroW morning. ’' Colopel 
Ilartfordi is aAvare that any.communrcation' from him to' ]\fr. 
Dunallan Avould have mutually been more > agreeably' convey e< I 
by a third person ; but the nature of the conv^ersation lie alludes 
to makes that impossible.’ . ' ' " ■ ' 

“ I immediately Avrotc a note consenting to this meeting, and 
then returned toiiny miserable thoughth: F rom what I had seen 
of Colonel) Hartford, I foresaAV that a conversation -with him 
could only end in ahneeting of a move' serious' nature; Such a 
meeting, for) such a csiusc, must for ever ruin tlic-lchamctbr of 
Aspasia, and then every hiAV of honor, and of the Avorld- 1 had 
lived in, bound ine^ should I jsuiwive,* not to* abandon her. I 
groaned > in agony as I finished* this tiketch of itlic future. 
Churchill’s ! dying) i Avbrds and looks had 'mingled Avith my 
thoughts, and 1 again hurriedly paced my chamber, attempting, 
if possible, not to thihk at all.- rl did not go to'bed, for I could 
not sleep, and I dreaded its qiiiet. At 'last I recollected that 
these moments might be the last I should have, as our 'meeting 
Avould not probably be lo)ig delayed if Colonel Hartford should 
feel as I expected he Avould. I Avrotc to Aspasia,’ and to' my 
father, and to Mrs. Churchill, though -the ‘last almost deprived 
me of my little remaining fortitude. As I finished these letters 
the day began to daAvn. It Avas a fresh and beautiful morning ; 

17 * 


198 


dunallan; ok, 


and I felt, as it briglitened, that niy thoughts only changed from 

• the, deepest gloom to the most overpowering' sadness. That 
sun I had seen gild the grave of my friend the preceding 
morning; it might soon also gild mine; and should we tlien 
meet? If heihadnot believed an illusion, — never! and if he 
had, all was only uncertainty, and uncertainty brings no peace 
even to the guilty. If 1 1 survived, my broken promise to 
Churchill would live for ever with me; but Aspasia would not be 
unhappy, and I should at lejist suffer alone ; cacli alternative 
shut out all hope of happiness ; I knew not which most to dread. 
At last I yielded to fatigue,. and, throwing myself on the bed, 
slept till my servant called me to meet Colonel Hartford. IMy 
short sleep had revived my spirits, and I entered the room wliere 
the Colonel waited for me, prepared to meet the haughty and 
threatening looks with which he had eyed me-'tlie evening before. 
His back was to me as I entered, but when he turned 'round, 1 
was struck Avith the change in his appearance; hc Avas now 

and I evidently distressed, though attempting to sui> 23 i’ess his 
feelings. After the door was closed, and a short, and, on his 
side, an embarrassed i)ause — • 

“ ‘ INIr. (Dunallan,’ said 'he, ‘I am acquainted with 3 ^ 0111 ’ 
character, and think, that im our iiresent circumstances, 1 shall 
act most Avisely by being perfectly open>Avitli 3 ’ou/c 

“ I boAved, I believe, coldly, for I avjis not prepared for such 
an address. , = . . ' . 1 1 , 

“ A slight flush, passed across the broAV of Colonel Hartford, 
and he stoi3i)ed and hesitated. < I am not accustomed,’ added 
he, a little haughtily,' ‘ to ask favors. I do not aa ell knoAv hoAV 
to. set about it ; 2 )articularly Avhere ’ . He stop[)ed. 

‘ AVhere 3^011 have been injured,’ said I. < ‘ Neither am 1 
accustomed to inflict injuries,’ added I, ‘ and I knoAV not hoAv to 
plead guilty.’ ' .w i 

• I Colonel Hartford smiled^ though the smile' Avas a sad one. 

“ ‘ I am right, I perceive,’ said he, ‘ and Avill proceed. 1 Aspasia 
has confessed her affection for 3^011, Mr. Dunallan,’ added he, 
looking on the ground and ri.'ddening as he spoke, ‘but she has 
authorized me to say, that she feels for her family, and' Avill 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


109 


attempt to subdue a passion, the* indulgence of wliicli can only 
end in lieTs and your misery. ’ This, however, I confess has 
been extorted from her by entreaties, and every possible means ; 
and, I feel 'too certain, would yield to one wish of ‘yours,’ The 
Colonel paused. <• i- i 

“ ‘ What do you wish me -to do ? ’ asked I. . - 
“ ‘ Mr. Dunallan,’ replied he, ‘ I have no reason to suppose 
my wishes could overcome such feelings as I witnessed yester- 
day.- ‘I would appeal to those feelings, and ask you, if they can 
endure seeing the creature you so much lovej' the victim of 
shame, and remorse, and guilt ? ’ ' 

“I started, for I perceived that Aspasia’s brother was de- 
ceived, and supposed her still innocent,.* He ascribed my change 
of countenance to another cause. ' 

“ ‘ I see,’ said he, ‘ I speak to one still young in evil as in 
years.’ . ‘ 

“ I shook my head, too conscious of his mistake. ' ^ 

“ ‘ You think not. Well, be satisfied with what you know 
of it; and be assured that guilty pleasures are fatally injurious 
not only to happiness and to respectability, but even to the 
powers of the mind, — to all that is valuable in this world and 
if there is another — but I go too far. ‘ I wished to appeal to 
your generosity. Aspasia has married into a family very 
different from her own in all their opinions and sentiments, — 
she has too completely adopted those opinions' which are per- 
nicious* in the extreme, and her own* family are deeply distressed 
on this account, for she is beloved by them all. Were she to 
yield to the influence of the false views of right and wrong 
which she has adopted with regard to the most sacred of all 
connections, she would kill a father whose life has been devoted 
to his children, and ^dio could not survive their dishonor. She 
would, — but I shall say no more ; you must undei’stand me, 
Mr. Dunallan ; my meeting' you in this humiliating manner, on 
such a subject, must prove to you the extent of the misery I 
attempt to avert.’ " He turned away almost overcome by 
emotion. ‘u <• 

‘ I do understand you, Colonel Hartford, and shall be 


200 


DUNALLAN ; OR, 


equally frank with yon.- I, cannot promise never again to see 
.Aspasia, because I dare- not trust my own promises.- You will 
• believe tliis,Avben I tell you, that it is not yet a fortnight since 
I promised to thci friend 1 most loved on earth, and that friend 
in his last moments, that I would never again see Aspasia : and 
though misery must follow the breach of such a promise, I have 
broken it.’ ^ r; ii ' ■ c J ' • • i- i -r ■' 

“ ‘ But did youinot meet her by accident yesterday ?’ ; 

“‘I did; and attempted to shun her ; but when she i fainted, 
and I, again found myself near her,il determined to give up all 
ratluu- than quit her. In intention, at 'least, I have broken that 
most sacred promise.’ j y. n.i;r i ^ . • 

Break it no farther, and you, will be able to forgive your- 
self,’ said Colonel Hartford. . = j. » , i . i 

• And Aspasia — unfortunate.’ 

“ ^ I know exactly how you will fi'.el regarding her,’ inter- 
rupted Coloneh, Hartford, but , all 3’easoning must be false, jMr. 
Hunallan, which suppo:^^ a life of guilt can, even in the society 
of the most beloved objccfibe a hap})y one. Leay.e Aspasia to 
reflection, and, the cqres ofjier family. I assure you they shall 
be. tender cares,; and she certainly will be less unhappy than 
,she would be were she guilty,’ , i j,,, f 

‘“I go abroad, immediately,’ replied I, ‘that I believe is a 
better seeurity.than my, promise. , One letter,. I must w'Hte to 
Aspasia. If I dared. I would say, it should be^the last.’ 
i “‘M.r, Dunallan,’ replied the Colonel, ‘I feel secure, of .your 
sincerity at least;,; and see plainly .that your own liappiness 
depends on your separation from my unhappy sister.’ , 

“We then, parted, and fpmmediately set .off for London.,: I 
ifelt as if, I had escaped, from destruction;, yet I deeply blamed 
myself for , having) seen Aspasia, atjeast: I might have avoided 
much that (had happened; and I felt, all the degi*adation , of 
guilt, when I recollected that I had left Colonel .IlartfordjWithout 
liaving .undeceived, him ; jyet this I thought, for, Aspasia’s peace, 
I, could not do. ,. But one crime gradually, taints the whole 
character. An adulterer must overcome his repugnance at 
being a hypocrite also. I did feel happier, however, and 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


201 


again dared to indulge in reeollectiotts of Churchill. I now 
regarded him as almost' ‘111/ guardian angel ; yet I could hot 
banish thoughts of Aspasia ; ~ most painful, sometimes itlmost 
insupportably painful thoughts. ' • . ' -i;; 

‘•In a few days I embarked with Clanmar for Italy. ‘Ido 
not mean, however, my dear Catharine, to describe to you at 
j)resent any of those' comitries 'through which I wah’dered for 
the two following years. My' 'admiration of the beauties of 
nature, and my thirst 'for knowledge 011 every subject, did not 
abandon me; but they were inhuen'ced, for most of that time, 
by the wretchedness of my feelings. ‘ 

“We passed the first six months in Italy.’ Clanmar was, 
for a short time, almost as miserable’ as ihyself, but liis griet 
was soon over, and he again sought those pleasures' and amuse- 
ments, in which a youtli of idleness, and complete* indulgence, 
had led him to seek for liappiness. ' Yet he never forgot his 
melancholy companion, but sought to draw me into those scbnes 
which he found, at least for a time, dissipated his own' melan- 
choly ; for Clanmar was formed for higher pursuits, though 
early neglect had left his imcult>vated mind 'a prey to all the 
impressions it might receive from books that interested his pas- 
sions, or amused his idleness, without inforiiiiiig his mind ; and 
from the scenery of a beautiful country, to which he was exquis- 
itely alive. But Clanmar’s amusements and pleasures had no 
chaims forfme. Your sex, my dear Catharine, to Whom he was 
devoted, I shunned, for I felt a melancholy pleasure in sacrific- 
ing all the fascinations of their society to the recollection of 
Aspasia. I' had kept my promise with regard to her, and had 
written but one letter, though her answer to that 611c had 
breathed nothing but despairing wretchedness. I had beeii a 
hundred times on the eve of returning to England to offer her 
hiy love and protection, but was happily deterred by the recol- 
lection of Churchill, and of lier brother’s conversation with me. 
I however wrote to Colonel Hartford, that lie must at least let 
mo hear of her, if he expected me to remain at a distance ; and 
he wrote me with extreme kindness, frankness, and feehng. 
This correspondence was the only pleasure of my existence. I 


202 


I>UNALLAN ; OR, 


wandered from one scene of beautiful ruins in that beautiful 
country to another. I inquired into the nature of the govern- 
\iient of each state, and the character of its inhabitants ; and all 
seemed to be, like myself, the wretched remains of something 
better and greater. Clanmar’s pursuit of pleasure, at the ex- 
pense of every thing else, at times grieved me, but I felt as if 
it was impossible to decide what was good and what was evil. 
The time had been, that I, could have expatiated to him on the 
powers of the human mind, and the happiness to be derived 
from its cultivation ; but that time was over. I felt my own 
weakness, and pretended not to teach another. When the mind, 
my dear Catharine, is in this weak, and useless, and gloomy 
state, I believe it is natural to feel a rebellious displeasure at 
the Author of our existence ; at least, I felt this to an extreme 
degree. When' I beheld the profuse beauty of nature, con- 
trasted with the misery and degradation of those for whom it 
was created, instead of feeling that it was the etlect of goodness, 
it seemed derision. I had read the observations on parts .^f the 
Bible, which my ever-lamented Churchill had written for me. 
I was reading attentively the Bible, also, whieh he had given 
me, and because he had loved it I held it sacred, though my 
mind and feelings still revolted at many parts of it. I, however 
became acquainted with its contents, and with its language and 
style : and had discovered the sources of all Churchiirs peculiai 
opinions., Ills own observations were short, but i powerfully 
convincing. As yet, however, this volume, so- jjrized by him, 
had no influenee whatever on me. - 

“After leaving Italy, we went into Switzerland, and its 
scenery for a time wholly engrossed both Clanmar’s -attention 
and my own. • lie souglit for no other jdeasure than that of 
contemi)lating it ; and I, too, for a time forgot all other things. 
Born and reared amidst mountainous scenery, this had an' in- 
describable power over us. We thought we could have 
remained for ever with pleasure among its sublime and varied 
beauties. But Clanmar, in a short time, again longed for his 
usual pleasures and amusements, lie went into society in 
search of them, and left me much alone. My melancholy 


KNOW WHAT VOU JUDGK. 


203 


returned, and I spent eight or nine miserable months almost 
in solitude. During this time, however, one cause of my un- 
happiness was removed, though even its removal left a sting 
of disappointment and bitterness. Aspasia had learned to live 
without me, and even to be happy. Colonel Hartford had 
written me regularly, and with the compassionate concern of 
a father ; and his last letters had described Aspasia as the 
charm of every society, by her powers of conversation, and 
other attractive graces. I felt certain that Colonel Hartford 
had always written me the exact truth, and I was forced 
to believe him on this occasion ; but though it was a 
relief to me to know tliat Aspasia was not unhappy, I idso felt 
that now there was not a creature on earth who really loved 
me. 

“It Avas at this time, my dear Catharine, that my father be- 
came urgent Avith me to return home. You know, my sAveet 
friend, Avhat his Avishes Avere ; and you Avill noAV understand hoAV 
little I could feel disposed, at that time, to look for happiness in 
a neAV attachment, or to ho[)e to find that warm and constant 
aflection my heart sighed for in any of your sex. I excused my- 
self to my father, and left SAvitzerland to remove myself farther 
from his entreaties. . < 

“ I noAV endeavored to forget Aspasia, and happier feelings 
began to return. Thoughts of ambition, and a desire for dis- 
tinction sometimes resumed their long lost poAver over me. 

What liad I done,’ thought I, ‘ to prevent my aspiring to any 
degree of eminence ? AVhat had I done, that any young man 
in my situation, and Avith my temptations, Avould not have done ? ’ 
I sometimes felt as if Churchill had led me to think myself more 
guilty than I really had been: but no feeling of displeasure 
against him ever gained admittance tAvice ; and when I thought 
of returning to , the Avorld and to active life, my consciousness 
of Aveakness made me desire most anxiously to find some prin- 
ciple to guide and strengthen me' more poAverful than any I yet 
kneAv.r 

“ I determined, therefore, to study again, and more carefully, 
that system Avhich had so completely influenced my almost per- 


204 


DUNALLAN ; Oil, 


feet friend. I slint myself up for this purpose sevenil hours 
every day. I ■studied with my whole attention, and at last, with 
the assistance of what Churchill had written for me, I became 
master at least of the system of religion which he had drawn 
from the Bible. I had followed him through the whole Scrip- 
tures, and saw clearly, that this system was supported by every 
part of them; of, rather, that it was an abstract of the whole 
spirit of those Scriptures. I found that, according to them, man 
was originally created for the happy pui'iiose of knowing and 
serving, to glorify the Author of his existence. All his powers 
and affections were formed for these noble purposes: all his 
felicity was to flow from the exertion of those j)bwCrs and affec- 
tions to those exalted ends. Butman had not fulfilled the pur- 
poses for which he was brought into existence. lie had dis- 
obeyed the goodness which had bestowed life upon him, and had 
perverted his power and capacity of choosing for himself, by 
offending in the single jjoint in which it was possible- for him to 
do so; he had chosen to know evil, at the knoAvn risk of incur- 
ring the displeasure of God, and he was justly glY("n over to its 
influence. 

“ Thus far, my dear Catharine, I could acquiesce ; but next 
followed, that the children of our first, unhappy, rebellious 
parent, inherited Ins guilt ; and though still in possession of the 
powers and capacities and atfections at first bestowed on him, 
these were so influenced by evil, that though still ardently thirst- 
ing for that happiness for which they were originally destined, 
they sought it everywhere but fixim its true and only source, and 
therefore were continually disappointed. 

‘‘ Churchill attempted not either to explain or vindicate this 
doctrine, so difficult to comprehend or reconcile to our ideas of 
justice. He found it in every part of the Scripture, and only 
asked the question, ‘ AVhether the state of the moral world could 
be accounted for ofi other principles ? ’ I supposed he had been 
aware that he could not defetKl this point, and read on ; but, on 
the contrary, I found that upon these principles the whole sys- 
tem was founded, and every page that followed only tended to 
their illustration. The' state of the human mind and heart by 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGK. 


20o 


nature, I found uniformly represented in Scripture as defective 
in all that is vailuable in the sight of heaven, and always deserv- 
ing of its displeasure ; and that deliverance from this displeasure 
is absolutely necessary, before we can be restored to the favor of 
our Creator. The means of this deliverance, Churchill pointed 
out to me, was revealed in the very beginning of the Scriptures, 
and 1 discovered- more and more distinctly down till the coming of 
Him whom, eighteen hundred years after tliat event, Churchill 
had, loved with the real and deep conviction of his . heart, as his 
Lord, and Master, and Saviour. 

“,Tliis was my beloved ChurchiH’s religion. He, perfect as 
I thought him, regarded his own nature as perverted and de- 
praved, and was fully .convinced that he required an atonement 
to expiate his guilt ; a holiness .to answer for that law broken by 
him and a new. principle of life to restore the affections of his 
heart, and the capacities and powers of his, mind to their original 
o)>ject and use; and all these, he had often declared to me, be- 
fore I had attempted to understand him, he had found in the 
knowledge of that divine l>eing, who is ‘ despised and rejected 
of men,’ till they have sought happiness everywhere else. 

‘ But,’ he would add, with the deepest emotion, ‘ none who find 
Him seek farther.’ 

“ I now knew Churchill’s system, and in some degree .under- 
stood it, but I knew not how to. make It my own. I felt that it 
did ■account for the state of my mind and feelings. I had sought 
happiness in guilty pleasures, fn ambition, and in the study of 
men, of books, and of nature, and I was still wretched. But 
how Avas I to find what Churchill pointed out to me? How 
was Iito ascertain that all he had felt Avas not an illusion? 

“ One, beautiful. evening I had Avalked out by the lake, my 
thoughts busily occupied Avith the subject I had been study- 
ing; and from that cause, even' more than usually alive to the 
beauty and sublime grandeur of the scenery around me. I had 
got into a solitary recess at the foot of one of the mountains 
Avhich surrounded the lake, and remained long in this favorite 
retreat,-, sometimes deep in thought, sometimes contemplating 
Avith rapture the varied beauties Avhich surrounded me. The 

18 


20G 


DUN ALL AN ; Oil, 


lake in all its splendor lay before me. Tlie sun poured its 
bright rays into its bosom. 

“ ‘ Oh ! that thy Creator would illuminate mine!’ I ardently 
sighed as I gazed on its brightness ; and, bending my knees for 
the first time since I had knelt at my mother’s lap, I burst 
into tears. • ‘‘ ’ 

“This softness was luxury to a heart which had been so long 
embittered and rebellious. 

“I attempted to pray, but I knew not how. I wished from 
my soul I could believe the Scriptures, but uncertainty clouded 
my ideas of the being before whom I knelt. Yet when I rose, 
though light had not been poured into my soul, the calmness at 
least of the lake had, entered into it. . From that day, my dear- 
est Catharine, light also began to dawn. I read, I reflected, I 
learnt to pray, and at last found that peace which is past un- 
derstanding — that source of happiness which, as my friend 
had said, Avhen once found, we seek no farther. The knowl- 
edge of which inakes all else in comparison wholly valueless. 

“And now, my dearest, sweetest friend, you know all the 
events, and misery which led to that change in my opinions, 
which you have so often heard ridiculed. 

“ I feel no surprise that it should excite i-idicule. IIow can 
I, Avhen I recollect the light in which those opinions I have now 
adopted once appeared to myself? 

“ I»have little more to say, my sweet friend. From the time 

I fully comprehended the first principles of the Christian relig- 
ion, every thing in nature, every thing in society, every feeling, 
and every power of my heart and mind appeared to me in a 
new ligFt ; but I learnt slowly, and have still much to learn, of 
the extreme weakness and ignorance of the human mind ; and 
of the perversion of the heart, and the strength of its passions. 

I I have now, however, discovered the source of true knowledge, 

true virtue, and true strength. That you, my beloved Catha- 
rine, should also discover this, is my most ardent and constant 
prayer. ; 

“ After I had been abroad about three years, I was called to 
England by the melancholy intelligence that my only sister was 


K.NOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


207 


thought dangerously ill. I hurried to her ; but my aunt will 
tell you her melancholy story, my dearest Catharine. I wit- 
nessed in her the powerful ,and’ happy influence of those prin- 
ciples I had embraced, — they smoothed' her bed of death, n; 

“AVe conveyed her from one place 'to another, in the vain 
hope that change of air and scene might restore- her, but with- 
out effect. On our return from - , we stopped at Mrs. Church- 

ill’s, and there my sister became so much • woi*se, that she 
could not be removed. Mrs. Churchill was a mother to her, 
and she remfiined in her house till the last scene 'was over. 
Mrs. Churchill rejoiced in my change of sentimentSj and 1 in 
the cheerful, and at times even joyful resignation of my jwor 
sister. ■ 

“Mrs. Churchill’s family' had improved under her 'care in 
every way. George was at college, the younger children 
} miable and interesting, and all in the bloom of health, happi- 
? ess, and peace. Poor ISIrs. Churchill looked wonderfully older, 
grief had made slow but sure ravages in her constitution, re- 
signed and pious as she was. • 

“During my stay in- England, I' met many of my former 
friends ; but, in general, we mutiudly tbund each other changed. 
AValderfordt and a few others still retained their affection forme, 
and I became, through AValderford, acquainted in society in which 
my newly imbibed principles were understood, and ' valued. 
Among theset I tbrmed many friendships ; but an- unfortunate 
wish of my father’s made me abandon all these, and again 'leave 
my country. I need not name this wish to- you, my dearest 
Catharine; but I would explain to yoiitwhy I felt so averse to 
fulfilling it, and' my chief reason* wasi this': — I had learned that 
a promise had been won from you, while a mere ' child, similar 
to that which my father had obtained from me. I shall tell you 
how I became acquainted with this. For a short time after I 
returned to England, my ' sister’s illness took a more favorable 
turn, and I took that opportunity to pay an unexpected visit to 
my father. ‘ I found him in the same most unhappy situation 
in which I had left him, and the more kindly he received me, 
and the more affection I felt for him, the more distressing 


208 


DUN ALL an; ok, 


was it to witness that situation. Iliad only been one' day at 
home, A\dien my father returned to his favorite theme — my 
settling in my own country. He made me the most extrava- 
gant offers. I endeavored ' to evade giving any answer; but 
that was impossible. « At last I said : . - . ' 

“ ‘ But, my dear father, do you wish to have your son reject- 
ted by Miss Dunallan ? You describe her as ' surrounded 'by 
the most agreeable • admirers. I have no chance in such a 
competition.^, . u. ;- • ’ f ; -'f 

‘ Oh,’ replied he, ‘ you are safe ; the lady may amuse her- 
self in making conquests, but it is many years since she made 
a promise never to marry any man but the one chosen by her 
father.’ - ' 

“ ‘ Many years ! ’ repeated I, ‘ Miss ^ Dunallan is still very 
young.’ ^ 

“ ‘ She is,’ replied my father ; ‘ but Lord Dunallan has taught 
h(‘r to regard her promise as sacred, and she is one of those 
juoud spirits who feel more bound by such cmgagenients than 
by the ceremony of marriage itself. There is 'but one event 
can break this bond,’ added my father, ‘ and you will read it there,’ 
giving me a letter. t 

“ It was from your father, my dear Catharine, and its con- 
tents confirmed all my father had said; and declared that the 
only thing which could absolve his daughter from her promises, 
M'tis his permission to make another choice, a permission nothing 
would induce him to give but the certainty that I wished to 
decline the connection. .■ 1 

“ I detested this tyranny, and determined as far as I could, 
consistently with my promise^ to my father, to' give you, my 
dear Catharine, the power to make a choice for yourself; and 
in displeasing your father by delay I supposed that I 'promoted 
tliis plan. ' j, : ' * i 

“ After much entreaty I obtained my father’s consent again 
to go abroad for, determined as he was that I should sometime 
liilfil his wishes, his naturally yielding temperi could not -resist 
my importunity in asking delay. ’ i 

“ I will not conceal from you also, my dear Catharine, since 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


.209 


I can now with truth say I was deceived, that I disliked 
tlie character I had heal'd of you ; and, believing also that 
1 sliould be very little suited to your taste, I looked upon our 
union as the beginning of misery, so -I far' as domestic 
concerns could produce it, to both of us. T ' therefore took 

leave of my friends, and my country, and again became a 
wanderer. * ! drji!'! :f ■ . mi ^ ) 

‘•You know, my dearest Catharine, what called me home 
and what followed. It was during my stay abroad, that, at 
the request of some Iriehds in- England, I undertook my present 
mission. They knew my wish to remain abroad, and that^ I 
cared not where, but only longed to'inake'my existence of some 
use to my fellow-creatures — and now I am banished for I know 
liotliow long.' i! t • • . t , • . . Hi • Im r. 

i “ I have put you in possession’ of all my secrets, my sweet 
friend, shall I add this most true one, that during my banish- 
ment, I look forward to your letters, to your promised contidence 
and friendship, as my dearest and most longed for earthly pleas- 
ure. i Adieu, dearest Catharine; remember your promise of 
perfect openness with your devoted friend, 

’’ ■; ■' E. H. DunXllan.’" 

' i . - ^ ^ I 

ClIArTEK XIIL 

! J .(i •' .• ■ - 

Catiiakine had been so completely absorbed while reading 
Dunallan’s letter, that the time had passed away quite unob- 
served. She, had read it with the most varied feelings. Some, 
parts she scarcely, even after several perusals, understood. 
Conscious of tliis, she was again sdirching for those passages, 
when to her surprise she was summoned to meet' Mrs. Oswald 
at dinner. She complied with the summons, but was so absent 
that she answered at cross purposes wliatever was addressed 
to her. jNIrs. Osw'ald at last gave up all attempts at con- 
versation, and continued to eat Tier dinner in silence,* but soon 
exclaimed: ' ' ; 


18 * 


' *210 


DUNALLAN ; OR, 


“Oh stop ! don’t cat that, my dear.” 

“Why, madain ?” replied Gatharine, starting from her 

, I 

reverie. , ! • 

“ Because, my love,” said Mrs. Oswald, continuing to laugh, 
“ you have declined John’s offer of sugar, and have completely 
covered <your( pudding with salt.” . i , i . 

Catharine blushed and joined in Mrs. Oswald’s laugh ; and 
during ftliO'rest of the time she remained in the dining-room, 
she was tolerably present to 'wliat passed. " * ’ ' 

After dinner, Mrs. Oswald said* she had a short letter to write, 
and Catharine had, again engaged herself as deeply as ever with 
the contents of Duimllan’s packet (when obliged to meet Mrs. 
Oswald at teaJ Now, however, there were no servants present, 
and she avowed the cause of her absence of thought. Mrs. 
Oswald seemed to enter quite into her feelings, and, rising ih her 
quick way after tea, said, ’ b - ' 

“ Good-by, my dear,'! shall be busy till we meet at prayers, 
and I believe you will not be at a loss to find em[)loyment ; 
whenever you have any tiling to say to me, however, remember 
I am quite at your command.” c . ! ^ q 

“ Oh, my dear Mrs. Oswald, I shall have a great deal to say 
to you, but as yet I scarcely know Avhere to begin.” 

“I know that, my love, so good-by. I ho[)e, Edward, in 
that letter has made you fully acquainted with all his sin- 
gularities.” ■ • 

“ Not quite ; he still refers me to the books he recommended 
to me ; and, though he avows that his' intention' in thus kindly' — 
thus condescendingly, making me acquainted with all his secrets, 
as he calls them, is to describe to ihe the change that has taken 
jdace ill his opinions, 'yet when he comes to describe what that 
change is, he does so ill a few short seihences.” i- 

Mrs. Oswald smiled, “ that is,' indeed, rather jirovoking, my 
love, and I will not 'attempt to jilead his excuse. You must 
make your complaint^ ^to himself.” She then left Catharine,’ 
who returned to her letter. 

“Yes, I must complain to himself,” thought she, ideased 
with the idea; “but what shall I say to many parts of this 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


211 


letter ? Aspasia, what ean I say rega,rding her ? Unfortunate 
Aspasia!” thought ^ she, sighing ; but, recollecting that she had 
been, the means of rendering Dunallan guilty and unhappy, 
and then , had forgotten him, she thought of her only with 
detestation ; her idea was painful, and she attempted to banish 
it, but could not succeed. She, however, was quite aware,' that, 
in his attachment to Aspasia, contrary .as it was to the morality 
of religion, Dunallan had not been more guilty than many 
others who regarded their past lives without any apparent feel- 
ing of self-reproach.- Her hither, and those friends with whom 
he most frequently! associated, had spent their younger years 
together. Some! of these they had spent abroad; and Cath- 
arine diad often heard those years of gallantry and dissipation 
recalled as< the happiest of their lives. It was true, her pres- 
ence had sometimes been forgotten. when the charms of Madame 

de or Lady had been expatiated on with deliglited 

recollection ; and when her father and his friends had re- 
])roached each other, or rather, from their tones of voice, coin- 
jdimented each other, ■ . _ . 

“Ah, Sir Hugh, you were a sad, inconstant fellow!” 

.,“And you, my Lord.- Dunallan, have nothing to 'reproach 
your, self with on that head certainly, ha, ha.!” i,,.; 

, “ Do you remember that poor devil S ■, Sir Hugh? 

Do you .i remember how he was managed -by his pretty, 
intriguing, little wife, — your hundredth love, as you used to 
call her?” 

“And whose affections you, my Lord, stole from me. Ah, 
you mean to, pay a compliment to the strength of my friendship 
when you- recall that story!” 

Catharine had i always .been disgusted by isucli conversations, 
and she loved Dunallan fori Ihe misery' he ihad suffered while 
entangled in guilt. She ardently desired to comprehend those 
principles which he described as. ^so powerful, .and whose 
influence seemed so delightful- — so purifying. She ardently 
wished that she also might feel their influence; for she i had 
learned to esteem Dunallan’s understanding too highly to believe 
that his reason could be subdued by an illusion of his iinagina- 


212 


DUN ALL an; or, 


tioii,!>whieh she had supposed the' case with those enthusiasts, 
witli whose notions ; she had been led to suppose Dunallan was 
tainted. ! She had- read ..various parts of his letter -over many 
times, and sat in deep thought over its- contents. Dunallan’s 
attachment to Aspasia was the part of his story which, how^ever^ 
left the deepest and most unpleasing impression, and which still 
recurred when she attempted to lixi her thoughts on other 
subjectSu . She could not disguise the truth to herself; Dunallan 
hadi been passionately attached to. tliis woman, who seemed,- by 
his description, to have been very charming. Catharine sighed 
when she recalled- that description; “Such powers of conver- 
sation ! iSuch grace ! Such cultivation' of mind ! ” “Ah ! ” 
thought she, “ these are the charms wliich irresistibly attract 
the heart against its better resolutions! The innocence of 
a. 1 country education, and of- country morals, must be approved 
of on cool reflection ; but can reflection guide the heart ? Can 
religion dispose of the affections as it pleases ? ” She sliook 
her head incredulously at, the idea : “or does Dunallan’s religion, 
which seems to consider the human heart so evil, forbid us to 
fix our affections at all on what is so unworthy? No; for how 
ardently does Churchill love his friend ! ” > Catharine had wept 
over Churchill’s story. “ Unhappy 'Dunallan ! ’’ thought slie ; 
“while I'isup}X)sed him wandering everywhere in search of 
pleasure, regardless of the pain he inflicted on his father, -he 
has himself been endeavoring to fly from suffering- — and from 
me,” she could not help adding. “ But he must shrink from the 
idea of ever again being attached to any one ; and- after what 
he has known of real affection, how hateful to Iiini must be the 
idea of a connection for life with a creature he may neither be 
able to reason nor moralize himself into loving.” ■ 

- Thus far only had Catharine arrived in arranging her ideas, 
when again obliged to join Mrs. -Oswald. - ‘ • ; .‘u. 

<“ Well, my dove,” said that lady; -“ are you now -more recon- 
ciled to Dunallan^s' method of making you acquainted with his 
sentiments? ” ’ ■ - c ■ * 1 

- ‘fMy< dear. Mrs. Oswald,” replied 'Catharine, earnestly, “will 
you be frank with me, and reply to a few- questions I wish ex- 
tremely to have answered ? ” 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


213 


' Certainly, my love.” 

Well, then, my dear, madam, tell me first, does your religion 
and Mr. Dunallan’s lead you to think everybody) bad, however 
amiable they may appear to be ? Do you really believe that, if 
we knew the hearts of every one, we should ifind them all- 1 bad? 
For this, I think, is Mr. Dunallan’s opinion, » and .-I confess! it 
appears to me a very shocking opinion.” i . 

■i “ The opinion, as you state it, my love, is certainly not Dun- 
allati’s, at least, not exactly so. Such an opinion 'supposes I the 
whole: world hypocrites^ and those who appear most amiable 
only most hypocriticaL!,..This is not his opinion certainly it ‘is 
not even his opinion that we ought to form an unfavorable! idea 
of any one, but upon i the most positive proofs that they merit 
it.” ■ h ..1 . - h •! . !..■> 

“ Yet, my dear madam, both he and his friend iMr. Churchill 
consider the most perfect goodness to which we can attain as;of 
no value — at least, so I understand him ; but you yourself shall 
judge of what he says.” 1 m - ^ ’ ■ ' 

“ I am perfectly acquainted with his sentiments on that sub- 
ject, my dear Catharine ; they are my .own. It is, my love, in 
the sight of a holy God, that he believes and feels, that every 
human creature, however amiable he may appear in the eyes of 
his ecjually defective fellow-creatures, must appear worthless 
and guilty.” . .i;,l in: 

Worthless ! guilty!.. Do you. not use very strong, terms, my 
dear madam?” 

, “ No, my dear love, I use • the words of the Bible, which says 
that the human heart is ‘ desperately, wicked.’ ” f A''\ n w 
“ Every human heart, madam ?” ;. i.: • ■..• i: ; ; 

Yes, hiy love, no exception is made.” ■ j uj 

“ And can you really believe this, Mrs. Oswald, and still love 
your fellow-creatures?” . i 

i,. “ My-fellow-sinner.s, my Catharine, i My belief of this ought, 
and sometimes'does, to a painful degree, increase my love; and 
sympathy for them.” M it-.il ' : i 

“ But I suppose, madam, the Bible -means, that; compared to 
the perfection of the divine Being, human nature is weak and 
insignificant.” 


214 


dunallan; or, o 


“ No, my love ; for, though this is assuredly the case, re- 
proaching us on this account would have been unjust. We only 
deserve censure when, we put our powers to an unworthy use, 
not because those powers are weak and limited. It is a com- 
parison between, those rules given us by God in the Bible, to 
direct our conduct and affections,' and the manner in which we 
ourselves choose to direct that conduct and those affections, 
wliich proves I to »us that we are naturally inclined to act differ- 
ently from the will of God, and to feel love and hate, and hope 
and 'fear,, for tho.se ol)jects which are totally different from tlio.se 
Avliich God commands us to love and hate, and fear and desire ; 
but I preach, and will tire you at this late hour.” ^ i 
i r‘‘.Oh, no, my dear madam, I feel the deepest interest in 
conversation such as this. You seem to think that we natu- 
rally incline to disobey the commandments of - God; now I 
think, if I only knew his will, it would dcliglit me to obey 
it.” . . 

“ And is there any difficulty, my love, in knowing that will 
on every occasion .wliere we have to think or act?” 

“ But I am not conscious of ever having intentionally acted 
very contrary to that will.” - < i • ' 

Mrs. Oswald smiled. * !< , i i _ 

“ Why do you smile, my dear madam ? ” asked Catharine, 
blushing. 

'•“Ah, *my love, nothing could prove more forcibly to me, 
that you have never attempted to make that will the rule of 
your dife. Recollect, my Catharine, i the . first requisition of 
that will, ‘ Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy 
heart, and all thy soul, and all thy mind, and all thy strength.’ 
ILit good-night, my sweet love ; may you be enabled to form 
just Opinions on this most important,- most interesting -of all 
subjects.” , 

Mrs. Oswald and Catharine t then parted for the night; but 
Catharine did not go to sleep. After dismissing Martin, she 
again returned to Dunallan’s letter; nor did she leave i it till 
I'cminded of the hour by the dawning day. . ■ > . ' 

Next morning she would gladly have dismissed Martin for 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


2l0 


another hour when she came to call her, but, recollecting 
Mrs.' Oswald’s smile the night before, she got uj), and, tliougli 
languid and unrested, was ready to appear at the hour of 

r; ; i ■ ; 

This day brought another letter from Dunallan. f It was 
short and hurried, written just before he sailed, but full of 
such deep imd tender concern lor heiy that Catharine, unable 
to restrain her tears, retired to her owji apartment, to indulge 
the mingled regret and' pleasure it inspired.f ‘‘ Why did I 
not know ‘him sooner?” thought she; whyr didu II suffer 
prejudice to blind me to his character? How lively, how deep 
must his feelings be, who, in. the midst of business of such 
importance, can find time to write thus kindly — thus sweetly, 

to a creature whom he .can only pity. 13ut i)erhaps-^^ 

She read his short letter again, . Every word might. have been 
addressed to a sister. It concluded thus: “Adieu, my sweet, 
iny lov ely, and belov^ed friend.” AYell, my dear, , my, excel- 
lent, my beloved Dunallan,” thought Catharine, “ whatever are 
your feelings for me, the aim of my life shall be to deserve 
your most valued esteem, and when you return, you may 
j>erhaps yet be hapi)y in your home.” .t( : 

With that resolution, Catharine immediately set about that 
exact scrutiny of her own character, and constant attention 
to its improvement, . which she thought necessary to lit ,her 
for a companion to Dunallan. She eagerly began to form 
rules for r S2)ending every moment of her time to advan- 
tage, and she determined they i should on no account be 
infringed. < . .i 

She had, after many alterations and improvements, com- 
pleted this plan, and commenced the occupations she had pro- 
posed for the coming hour ; which was to read, with a 
determination toi yield neither to fatigue nor dulness, one 
of the books recommended by Dunallan. She, however, 
found it neither dull nor tiresome, but, on the contrary, 
was reading with very deep interest, vvdien a servant came 
to announce two visitors — Mrs. Ivullivcn and her daughter. 

“ IIow vexatious ! how troublesome ! ” exclaimed Catharine. 

“ Is IMrs. Oswald with the ladies ? ” 


21G 


dunallan; or, 


“No, niiidiiin, Mrs. Oswald is gone out.” 

“ I shall be with them immediately. How provoking ! ” 
continued she, “my whole plan destroyed at once. But I 
know at least how to prevent very frequent visits,” putting up 
her books and papers, and leaving them with regret. 

Mrs. Ruthven’s appearance soon disarmed Catharine of her 
displeasure. She was a very fine looking old lady, with a pale 
and interesting countenance. 

“ I fear I have interrupted some agreeable occupation, 
Mrs. Dunallan,” said she, after the first compliments w^ere 
over. 

Catharine hesitated “ I was only reading, madam.” 

“ But can any occupation be more interesting? ” 

Catharine smiled, and confessed that^ she had indeed been 
very deeply engaged. “ I fear,” added she, “ my looks have 
betrayed my want of hospitality; the book I w'as reading 
ouglit to have inspired me with very different feelings.” 

It was the mild and pleasing expression of Mrs. Ruthven’s 
countenance, joined to a maternal kindness, and sweetness of 
manners, that alw^ays reached the heart of the motherless 
Catharine, which so soon brought her to this frank avowal of 
her fault. 

Mrs. Ruthven looked fixedly at her for a moment, with more 
than the common interest which beauty and amiable manners 
inspire ; and then sighing deeply, turned her eyes to a portrait 
of the last Mrs. Dunallan, which hung on the opposite side of 
the room. Catharine followed her eyes ; she looked for some 
moments, and then sighed, very deeply. 

“ You knew that lady, I suppose, madam,” said Catharine. 

“Illid, and 

“ And you remember how different' she was from the present 
lady,” interrupted Catharine, with a playfulness, which, how- 
ever, did not prevent her eyes from filling with tears. 

“I am not yet acquainted with the present lady,”’ replied 
Mrs. Ruthven, her eyes also filling, “ but unless the promise is 
very false, I must grieve that my departed friend has not lived 
to possess the one blessing she desired above all others — a 


KNOAV WHAT .YOU JUDGE. 


217 


. daughter. But tliis is a foolish regret,” added she, smiling 
sadly. “ It is many years since I have been in. this house,” 
continued Mrs. liuthven, “but the happiest hours of my life 
were spent in it. You. will not be surprised, therefore, Mrs. 
■Dunallan, at my ,wii=^hing once more, before I die, to see it, and 
her who is in future to be its chief ornament and happiness. . I 

, know you will tire of an old woman, but ”.i i 

Oh ! do not think so poorly, of me,”* said Catharine. “The 
first desire of my ’heart is to resemble your friend, Mr. Dun- 
allan’s mother. There is no person I have desired so much to 
see, as one who could describe her to me.” •' ! 

This was a welcome theme to Mrs. Ruthven, and when .Mrs. 
Oswald, an hour after, returned from her walk, she was sur- 
prised to meet, at the entrance of the house, Catharine holding 
in hers the hand of the infii-m old lady, Avhile she supportcal 
her with her arm thrown around her waist, and listening .so 
eagerly to lier as they walked, that she did not even observe 
Mrs. Oswald’s approach. !., .. 

After a cordial embrace on the part of Mrs. Ruthven and 
]\Irs, Oswald, Catharine and her infirm com[)anion proceeded 
in their interesting conversation, leaving Mrs. Oswald to enter- 
tain poor Miss Ruthven, whom Catharine had entirely over- 
looked. f.fi.'- i’ • 1 : 

! wish once more,” said Mrs. Ruthven, “to view that spot 
where my departed friend so often charmed me by her sweet 
and heavenly conversation. She always succeeded in warming 
my cold and worldly feelings by the ardor and purity of her 
})iety. Though many years younger than I* was, she had got 
fiir before me in her course. The world had become nothing 
to her, though still fitted to adorn it. She knCw its vanity, jind 
longed jto leave it ; while she acted as if its duties wer6 her 
delight,” ; f r. ■ ; -ml ^ 

“But,” asked Catharine, “did^she not nisii to live on her 
son’s account ? ” , i 

“lie had been taken from her,” replied INlrs. Ruthvcin. “ She 
•knew his father would leave no attempt untried to destroy the 
early le.s.sons of piety she hadhittempted to imjn-ess on his young 

19 


218 


duxallan; or, 


mind — tliis Avas her seA^erest trial; but slic had learned in' a 
Avonderfnl degree to join the most unwearied exertions, wliero 
Imman exertions could avail, to the most perfect submission and 
confidence ini the Divine Avill, Avhere' those exertions Avere fruit- 
less. i ‘Perhaps when 'I am gone,’ she used to say to me, ‘Mr. 
'Dunallan may think more favorably of my principles ; at least 
lie Avill lose his dread of them, 'and ' endeavor no fartlier to 
• eradicate the impressions I have attempted to make on tlie mind 
of my child. I have committed him to God, Avho, I feel almost 
confident, Avill answer the prayei’s I have offered up, ever since 
his birth, for his best interests. God is my Avitness,* aa'Iio gaA^e 
me the desire, that' to see him truly religious, to see him* even 
the most loAvly gifted servant of my Lord, Avould delight me a 
tliousand time's more, than to see him without religion, the most 
exalted of ’ human beings. God has formed him all that the 
fondest or vainest motlier could Avish ; and Avhen his OAvn best 
time comes, he Avill impart to him that living principle Avhich 
Avill direct all his~poAvers to the honor- and glory of the Giver, 
and then he .must be happy.’ Her prayers haA’C indeed been 
.answered,” continued Mrs. Rutliven ; “I trust tliat those she so 
.ardently off(a*ed up* for you, my dear Mi-s. Dunallan, may be 
equally iso.” { ' ^ 

“ For me ! ” repeated Cath.arine. ‘ 

“Yes,, for you. ' She kiupv the plans formed bylu^r husband 
and Lord Dunallan to unite their families; and for(‘seeing that 
tliose plans Avere likely to succeed, slie felt, and prayed for you 
Avith the tenderness of a mother.” * ‘ 

Catharine was much moved, and w.alked on in silence. At 
last, guided by Mrs. Ruthven, they stop^Acd .at the very spot 
Avhere Dunallan kid chosen to spend his last evening liefore he 
left Ammore. Catliarine had visited this spot d.aily siiiee tliat 
time — it Avas indeed her favorite resort ; and Avlien Mrs.'Rutli- 
ven stojiped, she impiired, with much emotion, “If that had been 
tlie favorite retre.at of Mr. Dun.all.an’s mother?” 

,i “It Av.as her chosen retreat,” replied Mrs. Ruthven, “ where 
she enjoyed that solitude and communion Avith heaven which ' 
Avere too often interrupted Avithin doors, by the strange c.aprices 




KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


219 


of her Imsbaiid.” I\[rs. Riithven looked mournfully around. 
“ How lovely ! how flourishing ! ” exclaimed she, while she 
wlio planned and arranged all these beauties is ” ,, 

‘‘ Is surrounded by what is far more glorious and beautiful 
than this,” interrupted Catharine, pressing the hand she held in 
hers. ^ “ That reminds me of her,” said Mrs. Ruthven, smiliii" 
sadly. “ She who felt as a mother for you, my sweet young 
friend, hated every thing like- gloom ; and used to say to me, 
Avhen overpoAvered by the lowness of my naturally Aveak spirits, 
that she Avould not suffer me to be melancholy when I knew the 
true source of joy and happiness : nor Avould she alloAV my 
imagination to folloAV those I loved to .the horrors of the grave, 
Avlien, as she said, I Avas invited to contemplate them amidst the 
s])irits of those made perfect in happiness, as well as purity.”, 

“ Oh ! that I did resemble her,” exclaimed Catharine. “ I 
must' tell you, Mrs. Ruthven,” continued she, “ the reason Avhy 
I received you so inhospitably this morning. I had been j form- 
ing a plan of life for myself in this solitude, Avliere l am deter- 
mined to remain till Mr. Dunallan’s return ; i and I, had .forgot 
that I should have any thing in the Avorld to do but attend to 
this plan, AA'hicdi only included the (attempt to improve^my-OAvn 
mind and feelings by the strictest attention to them ; and by tlie 
assistance of some books recommended to me by Mr. Dunallan : 
and my only other intended occupation Avas to attend to 'some 
institutions for the improvement of his people, Avhich he trusted 
to me. Nova', my dear madam, as il' commenced this plan of 
mine, by feeling extremely discomposed on., hearing of an 
interruption, Avdiich I noAV find was to .give ,, me .viery great 
pleasure, I think my plan must be very defective ; and 1 should 
greatly wish, if the recollections are not too painful to you, to 
knoAV hoAV your friend, Mr. Dunallan’s • mother, found time to 
do all she did, for IMrs. OsAvald quite discourages me by. the 
accounts she has given me. Mrs. Oswald, hoAvever; Avas 
lierself early separated by marriage, and ahvays afterAvards 
resided at a distance from Mrs. Dunallan, and only tells me 
whut she lieard from others.” 

“ I shall be most happy, my dear young friend, to tell, you 


220 


DUNALLAN ; Oli, 


all you wish to know on this subject,” replied Mrs. Rut liven, 
“and I feel grateful for the confidence you have placed in me 
respecting your very natural little disapiiointnient this morning, 
when interrupted by my visit. I admire your design of forming 
a ])lan. I also very much approve of your intention to remain 
entirely at home during Mr. Dunallan’s absence ; so much so, 
that I shall not even ask you to visit me, much as I- should prize 
such a visit; but you must make no exceptions, as you mil give 
otfence in a country where Mr. Dunallan’s family has long been 
one of the first consequence ; but before I go farther, I believe, 
my dear Mrs. Dunallan, it Avill be best to tell you frankly some 
things you ought tok'now. ‘ One is, that Mr. Dunallan’s religious 
opinion^ are greatly ridiculed in this giddy and censorious 
country. And another is, that you are universally sup[)osed to 
be shut up here with Mrs. Oswald by his desire, that you may 
in his absence be instructed by her in those dreadfully gloomy 
principles ; and that you are very miserable. I should perhaps 
have shrunk from rei>eating this silly gossip had I not lieai-d 
from several of the i^eople who had visited you here, that you 
loolled very' wretched, and seemed sad when they came away, 
but' never proposed their staying ; and that you told them, it 
was impossible you should return their visits; with such moving 
expressions of regret they were quite grieved for you.” .. « 

“ How 'absurd ! ” exclaimed Catharine with indignation.'' 

“I 'certainly should not have repeated all this, my dear,” 
resumed Mi*s. Rutliveny “ had I not perceived by your looks of 
perfect health and peace- of mind, and from the glow which 
Ibllowed the mention of your Mr. Dunallan’s name, that it was 
absurd.” . , : 

Catharine blushed and turned away. * It was painful to her to 
know that she so evidently betrayed feelings which she had not 
avowed, even to herself, did exist. * 

“ Forgive me if I pain you, my dear Mrs. Dunallan,” con- 
tinued Mrs. liuthven ; “ but during this dear friend’s absence, 
I think I am not mistaken in believing you would be willing, 
even at the expense of being teased with an old woman’s 
cautions and advice to preserve his character as far as possible 


KNOW AVUAT YOU JUDGE. 


221 


I from tliose aspersions Avliich the i profession of uncommon 
I strictness of 2>i’i>wiple always j)rovokes, until time, and a 
blameless consistency of conduct, prove the sincerity of the 
2)rofession.” . . >). i . ? 

“ Most assuredly,” reidicd Catharine, “ this would be my first 
wish. Tell me, only, my dearest madam, what' I ought to do. 
Oh ! if you knew how much happiness I already have lost by 
listening to such aspersions ! but that is past. What -must I do, 
dear Mrs. Ruthvcn, to preserve to Mr. Dunallan during his 
absence, that’ respect, that veneration I »know he so justly 
merits?” ; -f: ;>l - . .. . 

“Show, my dear young friend, that yourself feel it,” reidied 
IMrs: Ruthven, “and that you are- hap2)y ; and, above all, that 
jMr. Dunallan’s strictness of religious principle is rcsiiected by 
you ; and as farms you have really ado^ded his opinions, o2)enly 
avow that you have. I believe, too,” addetLMrs. Kuthven, “that 
you must admit c, little more hosi)itaHty into your plan,' rather 
than hav’te Mr. .Dunallan considered a tyrant, who has forbidden 
you either to leave home or' receive visitors.”' ‘ ’ ! > w t ‘ 

“ Oh, yUs,” re2)lied Catharine, “ I shall now receive all who 
choose to visit me, and make i myself as agreeable as I jtossibly 
can but then adieu to all my jdans of improvement.” •.i‘. 

• “ Why so, my dear ? ” ; . ' < . ' ■ 

“ Because I could see very plainly that those people who have 
already visited me, only i*equired the slightest invitation to i>ro- 
long their stay ; and I must either givCi this invitation in future, 
or confirm the belief that I am imprisoned here by Mr. Dun- 
allan.” ’’ < ■ .. n 

“ Well, my dear, but it is possible to do both.” " . i : 

“ True,” replied Catharine, “ I had almost forgot that you 
were to tell me how Mr. Dunallan’s mother contrived to do all 
she wished to do, with so little time at her own disijosal.” ‘ k 
“AV ell,” reidied Mrs. Ruthven, smiling, “ I shall begin by 
asking — are you an early riser?” > 

“ Sometimes,” replied Catharine, “ when I have any thing suf- 
ficiently interesting to induce me. At present I am called at 
eight, because I devote half an hour to reading books, 'chosen- 

19 * 


222 


DUNALLAN ; OR, 


for me by Mr. Dunallan, before I do any thing else ; and 1 jneel 
Mrs. Oswald to read to the servants at nine.” 

“ Well,” replied Mrs. Riithven, )“ Mr. Dnnallan’s mother only 
rose about an hour earlier.” '' 

“ An hour earlier ? ” ■ '< i " 

“ Yes, when in health ; and to this hour, or two hours which 
were her own in the morning, she has often told me she owed 
all the happiness she possessed.” < . !■ m ; 

“ How so, dear madam ? ” 

“I shall tell you, my dear, how slie spent those hours — she 
passed them cbietly on her knees — examining her heart in the 
j)resencc of her God — its every motive — its every desire ; and 
comparing these motives and desires with the wilb of God, 
declared in the Scriptures, which lay before her always as she 
knelt, shedearned that will so perfectly, and thedndissoluble union 
between obedience to its dictates, and the peace < and happiness 
of the mind, tliat she used * to say those morning hours Avere as 
necessary and indispensable to her soul’s health, as food Avas to 
that of her body. Some young people,” continued Mrs. IvutliA’cn, 
“ who sincerely desire to serve their Creator, giA*e themselves 
much labor, which brings no return' of good, by attempting to 
do many things, while they remain ignorant of their oAvn hearts, 
and comparatively so also of the Scriptures, Avhich alone can 
guide them aright in the Avay of salvation. They read other 
books on the subject, they puzzle themselves Avith difficulties, 
and they forget that their Lord has said, ^ Without me ye can 
do nothing.’ Mrs. Dunallan, on the' contrary, read fcAV books 
on religious subjects but the Bible ; and simply believing its dec- 
laration, that Ave are incapable of ourselves even to think a good 
thought; and, on the other hand, believing as simjde, the prom- 
ise of a new nature to those Avho ask it aright, she applied in 
humble confidence to her Saviour for that ncAV nature; and 
Avhile thus employing the means appointed by himself — read- 
ing Avith an ardent desire to comprehend and obey — praying 
for the poAver — examining her heart and soul in his presence, 
Avith the single Avish that they might be Avholly and unreservedly 
devoted to him, she felt that promised peace Avhich passeth un- 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


223 


derstandiiig, and. cannot be described. She returned to the 
world tranquil and serene — she had reposed her cares on that 
arm which supported the universe — she had fixed her supreme 
love on the same glorious Being — she had » implored his aid, to 
preserve her in that line of duty, which was pleasing to himself ; 
and, in her continually -difficult and trying circumstances, no 
voice for many, many years before her death, was ever heard to 
speak of her but in terms of praise and admiration. It seemed 
indeed as if the promise of the Prophet had been fulfilled to 
her, ‘Thine ear.s shall hear a word behind thee, saying, this is 
the , way,, .walk ye in it, when ye turn to the right hand, and 
when ye turn to the left.’ She was the life of every society, 
though she generally contrived to give a more grave and rational 
turn to the conversation, than many of her husband’s ft-iends 
would have relished in another ; but her character was so well 
known, and, at the same time, her anxiety for the real interest 
and happiness of every fellow-creature was so evident, and so 
sincerely earnest, that those who did not abandon their vices and 
irregular habit.s, yet candidly avowed to her their belief that 
goodness alone could ju’oduce happiness, and seemed to feel an 
unaccountable pleasure in describing to her the dark and melan- 
choly thoughts whiclu sometimes embittered their ealmer hours. 
In short, my dear young friend, this most amiable of human be- 
ings was so, because she received the power from on liigh — a 
power which she had learnt so greatly to value, and to connect 
in her thoughts so intimately with happiness, that in seeking the 
one, she felt she was also seeking the other ; and therefore she 
began each day by devoting Its first hoursifo this pursuit. Tiie 
events of the day she considered as guided, or overruled by the 
providence of her God and Saviour ; and she received what- 
ever was presented to her, of happiness, or disappointment, as 
from a, father who knew her nature, and wliat is required to im- 
prove it, better t.han she herself did.” Mrs. Riithven paused, 
and looked round at Catharine, who had leaned back while she 
spoke — she was in tears. . i- 

“ AVhy this, my dear young friend ? ” 

“ I cannot tell,” replied Catharine, smiling, and wi})ing them 


'224 


DUNALLAN ; OR, 


away, “1 really cannot tell; but I wish I knew X\\q, hajypiness 
of^ religion : asi yet I only know it as a restraint, or, at most, I 
feel admiration for* the character of the divine Being through 
the beauties of his' creation.” 

“ Follow on to know the Lord, and you shall know him, my 
sweet young friend,”' replied Mi’s. Buthven, with great tender- 
ness ; and believe me, who am a weak-spirited sinful traveller 
to that better country, that the knowledge of Him, even to the 
weakest and most unwilling to tinist in his goodm*ss, is a 'source 
of peace and happiness which, though it may not save them, 
through their own weakness and eulpable want of faith in his 
promises, from many- sins and sorrows, yet is so superior to all 
the Avorld can give, that .when once attained, we scarcely need 
any other proof of its being the gift of heaven.” • 

“ Thank you, my dear madam,” replied Catharine, “ I believe 
all you say, and hope 'Is shall one day understand it. In the 
mean, time,,, I shall attempt to imitate Mr. Dunallaii’s angel 
mother, at least in studying the will of God on my bended 
knees, the first moments of every day. • But here comes Mrs. 
Oswald. We must, my dear madam, resume this conversation 
again.” i,> i 

“ Certainly, my sweet Mrs. Dunallan, it can scarcely be so 
delightful to you as it is to me.” i 

Mrs. Ruth veil remained two days longer at Arnmore, and 
Catharine learned much of /ler character, whose steps she now so 
ardently wished to follow. On going away, Mrs. Ruthven of- 
fered to leave her daughter with Catharine, to enliven, in some 
degree, a solitude, which appeared to her too severe for one so 
young, and so evidently formed to love and be beloved in soci- 
ety. . Catharine felt her kindness,^ and though Miss Ruthven 
had , excited little interest in her feelings, she accepted the offer 
with gratitude. But though she * attempted to make the time 
pass agreeably to her guest, she could with difficulty at times 
command her wandering thoughts, ivhile conversing with the 
amiable, gentle, but common-place. Miss Ruthven. “ ^ 


-I - - 


END OF PART I. 


WOMAN’S Place To-day. 

Four Igptures in reply to the Lenten lectures on “Woman.” by the Rev. 

Morgan Dix, D.D., of Trinity Church, New York. 

By Lillie Devereux Blake. 

No. lot, LOVELiL’S LIBRARY, Paper Covers, 20 Cents, 
Ciotlt Limp, 50 Cents. 

Mrs. Lillie Devereux Blake last evening entertained an audience that filled 
Frobisher’s Hall, in East Fourteenth street, by a witty and sarcastic handliiig 
of the recent Lenten talk of the Rev. Dr. Morgan Dix on the follies of women 
of society.— iVezz; York Times, 

Mrs. Lillie Devereux Blake iaa very eloquent lady, and a thorn in the side 
of the Rev. Dr. Dix, and gentlemen who, like him, presume to say that woman 
is not man’s equal, if not his superior. Mr.s. Blake in her reply to Dr. Dix’s 
recent lecture upon “ Divorce, ’’ made some interesting remarks upon the sex 
to which she has the honor to belong . — lYew York Commerciol Advertiser. 

There is no denying that Mrs. B'ake has, spartan-like, stood as a break-water 
to the surging flood Rector Dix has hast upon the so-called w'eaker sex with 
the hope of engulfing it. It is sad to see agentlerra i in the position Dr. Dix 
occupies setting himself deliberately at work to not only bring reproach upon 
the female sex, but to make us all look with comtempt upon our mothers and 
sisters. And the worst of his case is that he has shown that spirit in the male 
part of mankird, which is not at all creditable to it, of depreciating the in- 
tellect, the judgment, the ability and the capability of the female sex in order 
to elevate to a higher plane the male sex. According to Dr. Dix the world 
would be better were there no more female children born. And he makes 
this argument in the face of the fact that there would be “ hell upon earih ” 
were it not for the influence of women, and such wonien as Mrs. Lillie' Devereux 
Blake, especially.— A/ftawy Sunday Press. 


Mrs. Blake's was the mo^t interesting and spicy speech of the evening. She 
was in a sparkling mood an I h t at everything and everybody that came to 
her mind. — The Evening Telegram. N. i'. 

A stately lily of a w- -nian, with delicate features, a pair of great gray ey^es that 
dilate as she speak ■> till they light her whole face like two great soft stars. — The 
Independent. N. Y. 

* * * She advanced to the front of the platform, gesticulated gracefully 
and spoke vigorously, d fianily and without notes. --Aew York Citizen. 

* * * a most eloquent and polished oration. The peroration was a grand 
burst of eloquence. — Troy Times 

Lillie Devereux Blake, blorde. bnlliant. staccate, stylish, [s a fluent speaker, 
of good platform presence, and argued wittily and 'vntW.— Washington Post. 

There are very few speakers on the platform who have the brightness, 
vivacity and fluency of Lillie Dewereux Blake. — Albany Sunday Press. 

She is an easy, graceful sneaker, and wide-awake withal, bringing our fre- 
quent applause. — Hartford Times. 

Mrs. Blake's address was for. ible and eloquent. The speaker was frequently 
interrupted by applause. — New York Times. 

The most brilliant lady speaker in the city. — New York Herald. 

Has the reputation of being the wittiest woman on the platform.— An- 
tonio Express. , , , , ^ . ■ 

Mrs. Blake, who has a most pleasing addre.“S, then spoke; a strong vein of 
sarcasm, witand humor pervaded the lady’s remarks. — PoaghTeepsie A/ews. 

For Salk by all Newsdealers and Booksellers 

JOHN W. LOVELL CO., Publishers, 

14 & 16 Vesey Street, New’ York. 



GRAND, SQUARE AND DPRIGHt 


Superior to all others in Tone, Durability and Workmanship ; 
have the endorsement of the leading Artists. First Medal ol 
Merit and Diploma of Honor at Centennial Exhibition. 

Musical authorities and critics prefer the SOHMER PIANOS, 
and they are purchased by those possessing refined musical taste 
and appreciating the richest quality of tone and highest perfection 
generally in a Piano. 

SOHMER & CO., 


MANUFACTURERS OF 


Srand, hum and UpriQ;l:it Pianos, 


149 to 155 EAST 14th ST., NEW YORK. 



vtSsr.v.-Ja ^ ■^:v:-:*&'*J 




y/i^3i:4SM 


EVOTE-D To THE BEST CURRENT & STANDARD LITERATURE 


Annual Subscription, $ 25.00 


COPYRIGHT 1889 BY JOHN W. LOVELu COMPANY, 


DUNALLAN 


Know What You Judge 

Part II. 


i^GFE.V^ 


/CKt^ 


GRACE KENNEDY 


NEW YORK : 

JOHN AV. LOAJELL COMPANY 

14 & IG Yksky Street. 


Entered at the Post O'Mce, N. Y., as Second Class Matter. 



LOVELL’S LIBRARY. 

NUMBERS NOW READY; 


1. Hyperion, by Longfellow, - .20 

2. Outre-Mer, by Longfellow. - .20 

3. The' Happy Boy, by Bjornson, - .10 

4. Arne, by Bjornson, - - - .10 

.5. Frankenstein, by Mrs. Shelley, .10 

6. The Last of the Mohicans, - .20 

7. Clytie, by Joseph Hatton, - .20 

8. The Moonstone, by Collins Pt. I .10 

9. Do. Partil, - - - - .10 

10. Oliver Twist, by Dickens, - 20 

11. The Coming pace : or the New 

Utopia by Lord Lytton, - .10 

12. Lelia ; or the S^icge of Granada, .10 

13. The Three Spaniards, Walker, ,20 

14. The Tricks of the Greeks Un- 

veiled, by liobert Houdin, - .20 

15. L’Abbe Constantin, by Ilalevy, .20 

16. Freckles, by R. F. Reicliff. - .20 

17. The Dark Colleen.- - - .20 

18. They Were Married ! - - .10 

19. Seekers after God, by Fantir, .20 

20. The Spanish Nun, - - - .10 

21. The Green Mountain Boy^, - .20 

22. Fleurette, by Eugene Scribe, - .20 

23. Second Thoughts, - - .20 

24. The New Magdalen, by Collins, .W 

25. Divorce, by Margaret Lee, - .20 

26. Life of Washington, - - - .20 

27. Social Etiquette, - - - .15 

28. Single Heart and Double Face, ,10 

29. Irene; or the Lonely Manor, - 

30. Vice Versa, by F. Anstey, - .20 

31. Ernest Maltra vers, by Lytton, - .20 

32. The Haunted House, and Cal- 

defPn the Courtier, Lytton - .10 

33. John Halifax, by Miss Mulock, .20 

34. 800 Leagues on the Amazon - .10 

35. The Cryptogram, by Jules Verne, .10 

36. Life of Marion, - - .20 

37. Paul and Virginia, - - - .10 

38. Tale of Two Cities, by Dicken-, .20 

39. The Hermits, by 'King.sle 3 % - .20 

40. An Adventure in 'riiule, and 

Marriage of Moira Fergus; - .10 

41. A Marriage in High Life, , - .20 

42. Robin, by Mrs. Parr - - .20 

48. Two op. a Tower, by Hardy, - .20 

44. Rasselas, by Samuel Johnson, - .10 

45. Alice ; or the Mysteries, being 

Part II of Ernest Maltra vers, .20 

46. Duke of Kandos, by A, Mat hey, .20 

47. Baron Munchausen - - - .10 

48. A Princess of Thule, - - - .20 


49. The Secret Despatch, -Grant, ,20 

50. Early Days of Christianity, by 

Canon Farrar, 1). D., Part I, .20 
“ “ “il, .20 

51. Vicar of Wakefield - - - .10 

52. Progress and Poverty, - - .20 


53. The Spy, by J. F. Cooper, , - .20 
.54. East Lynne, by Mrs. Woodr - .20 

55. A Strange Story, by Lytton, - .20' 

56. Adam Bede • by Geo. Eliot, P’t I, .15 

“ *• “ “ “ II, .15 

57. The Golden Shaft, by Gibbon,^ .20 

58. Portia; or by Passions Rocked, .20 


.59. Last Days of Pompeii, - - .20 

60. The T\yo Duchesses, - - - .20 

61. Tom Brown at Rugby, - - .20 

62. The Wooing 0’t> by Mrs. Alex- 

ander, Part I, - - - - .15 

Do. Part II, - - - - .15 

03. The Vendetta, by Balzac, - .20 

64. Hypatia, by Kingsley, Part I, - .15 

Do. Part II, . .15 

65. Selma, by Mrs. J. G. Smith. - .15* 

66. Margaret and Her Bridesmaids, .20 

67. Horse Shoe Robinson, Part 1 - .15 

Do. Do. Part II - .15 

68. Gulliver’s Travels, by Swift, - .20 

69. Amos Barton, by Geo, Eliot, - .10 

70. The Berber.by W. S. Mayo, - .20 , 
7L Silas Marner, by Geo. Eliot, - .10 

72. The Queen of the Count}', - .20 

73. Life of Cromwell, by Hood, - .15 

74. Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Bronte, .20 

75. Child’s History of England, - .20 

76. Molly Bawn, by The Duchess, .20 

77. Pillone, - - - .15 

78. Phyllis, by The Duchess, - - .20 

79. Roinola, by Geo. Eliot, Part I, .15 

Do. Do. Part II, .15 

80. Science in Short Chapters, - .20 '' 

81. Zanoni, by Lord I.ytton, - - .20 

82. A Daughter of Heth, . - - .20 

83. The Right andWrong t'ses of thd 

Bible, Rev. R. Heber Newton, .20 

84. Night and Morning, Part I, - .15 

Do. Do. Part II, - .15 

85. Shandon Bells, by Wm. Black, - .20 : 

86. Monica, by The Duchess, - - .10 ■ 

87. Heart and Science. ■ - - .20 

88. The Golden Calf, - - - .20 

89. Deap’s Daughter, - ■ - .20 

90. Mrs. Geotfrey, by The Dudiess, .20 

91. Pickwick Papers, Part I, - - .20 

Do Do. Part II, - - .20 

92. Airy Fairy Lilian, - - .20 

93. Macleod of Dare, - - - .20 

94. Tempest Tos.sed, Part I, - - .20 

Do. “II, - .20 

95. Letters From High Latitudes, - .20 

96. Gideon Fieyce, by Henry W. 

Lucy, " - .20 

97. India and Ceylon, by E. Haeckel, .20- 

98. The Gyi)sy Queen, - - - .oq 

99. The Adiniral’s Ward, by Mrs. 

Alexander, - - - - .20 


New York: JOHN W. LOVELL CO., 14 & 16 VesQy St. 


DUNALLAN ; 

OK, 'KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. “ 

— . A- • 

CHAPTER XIV. : ^ > . lA 

r7‘ - ) 

The morning after Mrs. Rutliven’s departure, Catharine was 
called an hour earlier than heretofore, and began that exam- 
ination of her own heart, which she had determined should , be 
the first occupation of each day; but she. scarcely jknew where 
or ho-w to begin. ,iShe knelt dowe with the Bible ot>en 
before her, and became overpowered with a kind of awe quite 
new to her. “ How very serious is this occupation ! ” thought- 
she, when - she recollected q Mrs., f Ruth ven’s description; of the 
manner in which Dunallan’s mother had performed it. , , She 
had examined evei:y motive and desire of her heart, as if in 
the presence of her Creator. Catharine attempted to do the 
same. She read, and prayed that she might understand. She 
reflected on her past life, and compared it with what she knew 
of the .^precepts of Christianity, and she saw, that , in that pure 
light it appeared only a succession of trifling punsuits, and a 
continued indulgence .in., all that her heart desired, without any 
reference to the Being who demanded the first place., in that 
heart. She rose from her knees humbled and dejected ; and, 
for some days, though she persevered in her morning task,., yet 
she felt no 'increase of happiness; on the contrary, she -vyas^at 
times really miserable. Gradually, however, as she became ' 
more acquainted with Scripture, she perceived that peace ot 
mind did not consist in ignorance of the strictness it I’.equired, 
as she had jbeenAempted to think, , when, on comparing her 
heart and life with its demands, she found, that, the more she 
knew them, the more was she convinced that she never could 
perform them. She had said to herself repeatedly, “ No 
human creature can; the sincere attempt must be;^all>•that is 
required;” but she could not rest satisfied with this conclusion, 
because she could find no satisfactoiy answer to the question 
which necessarily followed, “ Why were rules so impracticable 
given to direct us ? ” But as she read on, in simple earnestness 
of mind, the Christian system opened more fully to her 


226 


DUNALLAN ; OK, 


understanding. She read Dunallan’s short sketch of its out- 
lines with the deepest attention: she conversed freely with 
Mrs. Oswald, who greatly assisted her in this search after 
truth. Catharine’s was not a mind that could acquiesce 
submissively in remaining ignorant on any subject that had 
once excited her curiosity : and on one of such vast importance 
as that which now occupied her thouglits, she sought Informa- 
tion with unwearied ardor, and she gradually, but clearly and 
convincingly, discovered the meaning of those parts of Scripture 
which had at first led her to despair of ever truly becoming a 
Christian. 

“ Ah ! my dear Mrs. Oswald,” said she, one evening after a 
deeply interesting conversation 'with that dady, “ how well I 
now comprehend that passage whicli you have so often 
attempted to make me attend to in vain, wliile^I Avas in despair 
at my -own weakness, aiid the strictness of the precepts of 
Scripture. I now see that these pure precepts, that strict law, 
is intended as a ‘ schoolmaster to bring us to Christ,’ without 
whom we cannot perform one of its dictates in a right spirit. 
You at last said, my dear Mrs. Oswald, my true, best friend, 
that experience alone, my own experience, must teach me this ; 
and you said most truly indeed. I see all with a clearness that 
surprises myself. I see that we require an atonement for our 
past lives and for the evil that still pollutes the 'hearts and 
actions of the most perfect. I feel that we require a new heart 
before we can see this, or be disposed to ask power to obey the 
will of God.” ^ 

“ Yes, my dear love,” replied Mrs. Oswald, “ my prayers 
for you, Edward’s prayers for you, have been answered. 
How will he rejoice to know, thiit you have thus earnestly, 
thus perse veringly, sought that which it was the first desire of 
his heart you should obtain.” * 

Catharine sighed deeply, “ He M'ould scarcely believe the 
reality, my dear madam, if he saw how little influence it has 
upon me.” 

Mrs. Oswald smiled, “ He would be satisfied, my love, if he 
saw you, as I see you, struggling against your natural temper 
and acquired habits.” 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


227 , 


Catharine had, indeed, for some time been struggling con- 
stantly against the most rpowerfiil and confirmed of all her 
habits, which was a total indifference to all around her, except- 
ing, perhaps, the individual or two who might, among numbers, 
excite some interest in her feelings. She had been so long 
accustomed to be courted and amused by all, that she absolutely 
forgot the presence of those who did not in some manner 
excite her attention by their superior powers of pleasing. A 
slight hint of 'this from Mrs. Oswald had pointed it out to her' 
attention, and made it one of the subjects of her morning 
scrutiny. Ever since her conversation with Mrs. Ruthven,’ 
Catharine had obliged herself to invite those who visited her 
either to remain or return ; and very soon her house became 
the favorite resort of the younger females of the county. 
Catharine was the idol of the day ; but this afforded her no 
gratification, because she valued very little the admiration or 
affection of those with whom she associated, from a sense of 
duty. Mrs. Oswald’s hint, how^ever, led her to examine into 
the <;ause of this want of interest in her young fellow-creatures ; 
and this examination led her to discover many hitherto unsus- 
pected faults in her heart and temper. She watched these with 
increasing care, and her improvement was proportionally rapid, 
and, consequently, her internal tranquillity increased in an equal 
degree. Instead of that lassitude and want of interest which 
hitherto had, at times, accompanied all her pursuits and all her 
pleasures, she now felt a degree of interest and enjoyment 
quite new to her. She lived to her Creator, and she felt that 
peace, and sweet gaiety of heart, which can exist only where 
all the feelings and j)assions of the soul are subjected to the in- 
fluence of religion. One severe disappointment during this 
jxii-iod, had taught her that religion is not a guide only, but also 
a source of the sweetest consolation. Elizabeth had found it 
impossible to come to Arnmore. Her husband’s professional 
duties had called him’ to London, and for various reasons it was 
proper she should accompany him. ’ Catharine felt this disap- 
pointment severely, but one still more trying now awaited her. 
The time ari-ived at which Dunallan had- led her to expecti«he 


DUNALLAN OR, 


22a 

% 

would hear from liim, and no letter came. Catharine became 
more anxious every day, every hour, though Mrs. Oswald dis- 
covered many possible reasons for the delay. At last Catharine 
received a letter from Walderford, informing her that he had 
heard from Dunallan, and thought it possible his letters might 
have reached him before Catharine received hers. Dunallan 
was well, and succeeding even beyond his hopes in the object of 
his mission ; at least all promised fair ; and he hoped he should 
be able to return home much sooner than he had expected. 
Walderford had transcribed the passage — Dunallan called it 
“ his delightful home.” 

Catharine returned thanks to heaven, with the most heartfelt 
gratitude, for this relief from anxiety ; -for she had been unable 
to restrain lier imagination from picturing every thing dreadful 
that could have befallen Dunallan. 

Still, however, day passed away after day, and week after 
week, and no letter from Dunallan either to Catharine or Mrs. 
Oswald. Another letter from Mr. Walderford announced his 
having again heard from Dunallan — still well and successful, 
but extremely occupied, even harassed with business. But,” 
added Mr. Walderford in his letter, “ Dunallan, I have reason 
to hope, may now return to England in a few months.” 

Catharine still felt grateful to heaven for the preservation of 
his health ; but the certainty that Dunallan had, at least, become 
indifferent to her, required all her fortitude to support. 

-'Still another letter to Mr. Walderford, and none to Catharine 
or Mrs. Oswald. 

Mrs. Oswald had herself at last (teased to account for his 
silence, and looked grave and anxious. She had written con- 
stantly to Dunallan, and had described her own and Catharine’s 
disappointment at never hearing from him ; and his neglecting 
to reply to her letters at first surprised, and then evidently 
alarmed her. 

At last the long looked-for letters did arrive. Catharine 
retired with hers to her own apartment. She dared not trust 
herself to read it in the presence of the young party now as- 
sembled at Arnmore. She trembled so violently she could 


KNOAV AVHAT YOU JlTDGE. 


229 - , 


scarcely break the seal. vShe at last,« however; unfolded this long, 
long expected j lettei% One page, anddthe half of another was 
written. 'She, dared scarcely readi uo'! /!’ <*. r 

“I,. have just received your letter, my dear Catharine, and 
answer it >immediately.” My letter !”i exclaimed Catharine. 

“ My twenty letters ! ” for slie had not i ceased writing to him,' 
though of late, colder in her ex*p cessions of esteem and gratitude. 
She read on — ; 

“You say you continue to find' pleasure in< the occupations I 
recommended to you. Mrs. Oswald also! assures me that you' 
seem happy. , I endeavor, therefore, f to banish my uneasiness 
on your account. You know there is nothing which I should 
not feel it my duty and hajlpiness to attempt, which could in the 
least 'degree add to your comfort, or even amusement; unfor- 
tunate and most guilty as I feel rhyself to be, in’ having deprived 
you of the power of choice in the most important of all 'your 
earthly concerns. I would not so often* repeat- this, did I not 
wish to impress on your mind how greatly lifeelUhis considera- 
tion adds to your every other claim oh me. I feel your gener- 
osity in assuring me that you are not unhappy, and yoursgood- 
ness in desiring to please-, your absent friend in all you do. Be' 
assured I am not ungrateful; yet I Wish- you more to follow 
your own inclinations. ' Whatever you dojwill mOst please me, 
if I think it has interested or amused 3 011.' ) 

“ My, friend has not deceived you in saying I may be home 
soon eiv than I. expected, when I left you ; but, dear Catharine, 
excepting, if possible, to discover iyour wishes more perfectly, 
my coming home, be assured, will make • no difference. I ask 
only to be regarded as your : friend,) as the iperson on earth 
most bound to watch over your happmess;<’and‘ who must 
ever be, . - 7 J-’ Your sincere, your devoted '' ‘ 

^ i iiy ,u; ) ^!. “Edwakd' Dui^allan.’'*-!/;- 

J , , X-; • -J:' ' !) ) -'H /i *)’■ i • j 

Catharine read, and’ rcrread this letter. She' compared it' 
with ‘his last; — how changed! Yet it was not unkind; it was' 
as he ever was, feeling and anxious for her happiness, even to 
a degree that lessened, his own; but his manner of 1 writing to 

20 


dunaixan; or, 


23()j 

lier was too, too plainly cliaiiged. What could he mean, par- 
ticularly the last part of his letter? “I have expressed myself 
too kindly to him,” thought she, blushing, as she thought, “ and 
this is the way he has chosen to show me that he thinks so. 
A few weeks absence has proved to him, that the interest pro- 
duced by pity for my unhappy situation cannot last, ahd he’ 
fears my foolish affections will be fixed on him in a way he 
cannot return.” ' 

Catharine threw herself on her knees, and wept bitterly. 
She prayed for submission to the Divine will — to all its dis- 
pensations, liowever painful, however mortifying. “ I require 
to -be mortified — I know it,” continued she; “enable me to 
love tlie hand' that chastens to improve. I would fix my affec- 
tions on- earth — raise them to thyself, and teach me to believe 
in the love I cannot see in this bitter draught.” 

• Catharine remained more than an hour alone, and then re- 
turned to Mrs. Oswald and her guests, perfectly composed* 
though pale and dejected. 

> 'Mrs. Oswald said nothing of the contents of her letter, and 
Catharine made no inquiries ; she perceived, however, that Mrs. 
Oswald was remarkably grave, and treated her with more than 
her usual tenderness. Catharine dreaded that she had some-* 
thing painful to learn- regarding Dunallan, and earnestly ex- 
amined Mrs. Oswald’s countenance, to discover what she had 
to fear. Mrs. Oswald seemed to read her thoughts, and held 
out the letter she had received, saying, “I have no secrets, my* 
love.” Catharine took tlie letter reluctantly, but Mrs. Oswald 
pressed it upon her; and inviting some young ladies who were 
present to go with her and, examine some newly arrived plants, 
Catharine remained alone. < • ./ 

Dunallan’s letter i to his aunt was kindly but not cheerfully- 
written. He . did not mention Catharine till near the close of 
the letter. He expressed pleasure at hearing she was not 
unhappy; “ She is. young ’ to every thing, continued he; 
“ Novelty has still many charms for her ; and if the disposition^ 
you, my, dear madam, describe increases, I hope it may be- 
possible to preserve her at least from unhappiness during those- 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


231 


years in which hope and imagination arfe" sonVivid, that tiic 
quiet and rational enjoyment which I alone can offer her, 
appear irksome and insipid ; after that period, there may, per- 
haps, be some real happiness in store for both of us; — but no 
more of this. Happiness, my dear aunt, I need not remind 
you^ is not to be often found on this side the grave. If I could 
feel innocent in the part I have acted towards her ! — but that 
is I past now beyond recall.” Tins was all that was said of 
Catharine ; but there was a degree of impatience to be i home 
expressed in this letter which surprised her. Why should he 
wish to be home ? What happiness can fhome offer to him ? ” 
thought she. “ But. I always regard myself as all that he pos- 
sesses at home. How absurd ! AVhat, to such a man as Diin- 
allan, is one private connection! If his feeling heart could be. 
satisfied that I was happy, he would soon forget my existence, 

I only am a load to him — a cause of pain and anxiety. This 
shall not be. I will write so as to convince him, that I at least 
know, that the source of the purest happiness es not in this 
world — not even in possessing the affections of the most perfect 
beings it contains; and I trust, that in seeldng happiness from 
its only true rsource, the liveliness of hoj>e and imagination will 
be so directed, as to conyince him that) it increases tliat liappi-, 
ness a thousand fold.” : i :> ■ ; \;i 

Catharine returned ’her letter to Mrs. Oswald without making 
any remark, who received it also in'silence. - 

At night, when the rest of the party had retired to their 
apartments, Catharine followed Mrs. Oswald, “ Will you admit 
me for a few moments; my dearest madam?” 

Mrs. Oswald ‘ drew her affectionately into her bosom, “ M} 
beloved Catharine, I know what you must have suffered during 
this day of disappointment. But, my love, I am completely 
persuaded, that 'there is some mystery hangs over this long 
silence of Dunallari’s, and this strange alteration in the jstyle Ot. 
his letters — some mistake, that only requires explanation.” 

Catharine kissed Mrs. Oswald tenderly, and then drew away 
from her. For a few moments she could not speak. Mi’s. 
Oswald herself wept. 


^ 232 - 


DUN ALL an; or; 


My dear, kind Mrs. Oswald,” said Oiitliarine at last, “ this ^ 
has indeed feen a day of ‘hitter disappointment to me; but I 
think you will believe (that I neither, deceive myself -nor. you . 
when I' assure youj that it is not so insupportably severe asil 
dreaded it would be. when I first read n that ilong-looked-for 
letter. Tlie idea, that every event of my life> is ^ ordered ' ex- 
actly as it happens by a tender and mercifub]Bl;ither, is almost* 
as powerfully present to my thbbglits and feelings as the pain- 
ful contents of these letters ; and the idea is so sweetly* sooth- 
ing — so elevating, that I eaiinot say I am very- unhappy; 
indeed, what' I feel, -though it is unlike common 'pleasure, is 
sui>erior to- it. But, my, dear madam, I do liot' believe there "is 
any mystery I where you sup|X)se there is ; and I am now come 
to ask you ' to make me a promise' 'Without which I cannot feel 
satisfied.” ' ’• ' ‘ ^ .t ^ 

If the promise is, not to attempt to unravel this mystery,- my 
dearest Catharine, do not ask me, ford cannot give it.” 

“ Then, my dear madam, I must submit, and indeed be most 

wretched.”'' u "1. ' un ■ -■ ‘'t -u r-'V'* ; ‘i 

“ How, my love ? ^ »£ :;i‘ - 

Because, my dear I'Mrs. OsWaldp I ■ cannot 'diOlp fe'elingi 
certain, that this idea about* mystery is ^'qUite groundresSl' You 
will lead Mr. Dunallan to suppose that I expect more of his 
regard than he can* bestow ; this* will make him consider him- 
self unjust, and then* he will be unhappy ; and'this is the only 
thing I now really dread, and whicli would, I am sure, make 
me miserable.”" ' - ' • ' ' ■ ’’ u 

“Ah, my Catharine,” replied Mi's. Osw^ald, “ would you, 
from such false refinements, such trifling -delicacies, suffer some 
injurious mistake, some deeeption to proceed, which may in the 
eiid'prove fatal to the happiness of both?*” ' ■ i * ^ 

'-“ But, my dear madam, how is it possible there can be any 
mistake? > Mr. Dunallan mustdiave received our letters*-^ it is 
})hiin he has from some passages in his. The only mistake is 
this,' that I have sup^iosed he felt more tenderness for me than 
he does, or can. Youy my -dearest, kindest, Mrs. Oswald, have 
assisted me in this delusion, and Mr. Dunallan Wishes to -un- 
deceive us.” 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


23.3 


Mrs. Oswald shook her head. “ What rWantic' delicacy, my 
love it is unworthy of- yOu.^* > 'iu jl i;. . . 

< “But, madam,” replied' Catharine^ father d hurt, -“it, -is 'I 
•w’ho must suffer either way ; may ' I not ‘at least have my 
choice?'” ! -i iu !■ I- se 

“ Certainly, my love ; forgive me, if in my anxiety for your 
happiness, I seem to forget your right ^^o - dictafe in -what so 
nearly concerns yourself.” "! > v i I --fi ,r' » iiq 
“ Forgive me, my:too ^kind Mrs, Oswald, I imay be,’I pfob- 
ably am,' wrong ; but will ybu at least wait till I have had time 
to think over this matter ?”. >f'i ' ' / y : ' ' 

‘ “Imthe way that Dunallan’s^l mother used to examine eveiy 
subject'?” asked Mrs. Oswald, smiling kindly,' *m'- -i !•: 

‘1 “ Yes,^* replied Catharine.'- - ^ m , •:>/ 

“ Surely, my love; your decision,- after such an examination, 
will entirely satisfy me.” .'io.j- li. lmoi « 

Catharine hover found such 'difficulty, m deciding 'any ques- 
tion. There 'was sur'ely no goOd reason against Mrs. Oswahfts 
making the 'simple inquiry she! wished : jeij when obliged next 
morning to' join that lady, and her Other guests, Catharine had 
been' unable to form-' any opinion which satisfied her on the 
subject; After ’‘brea'kfast, Catharine, ' who had' never suffered 
visitors, or any other cause, to prevent her from attending to 
those institutions intrusted to her by Dunallan, prepared to 
go and visit her school. Mrs. Oswald oftered to accompany 
lier ; and, on their way, inquired whether she had formed her 
opinion on the subject .. of ‘-their conversation the preceding 
night. 

Catharine ''hesitated;' ^“Is' it necessary that one should be 
able to give a convincing reason for every 'difference of opin^ 
ion,i.madam ?” said she' at last; “for I ‘confess that,' after I 
have thought over, and studied this Subject .almost ever 
since we parted lak night,ll have been) unable to find one 
reason which you -will admit, -for- differing from. you yet I 
still do‘ so -as much 'as ever. ’May feeling, or delicacy, or in- 
stinct, or any thing you choose to call it; ■ not decide on some 

subjects?’?! 'in-' '. in: A- ‘ -J ' ' ' 


20 * 


‘234 


, DUNALLAN ; OB, 


Mrs. Oswald smiled, I see that you have come to the same 
conclusion I have, my dear Catharine. I have found it vain 
to jtry the. merits of this, subject by! any rules but those of feel- 
ing; .and I remember when I should have felt exactly as ivou 
do: and therefore, for the present at least, I must just do as you 
'Wish.’’ ; ) /. -■ ;• 1 . 

“ My dear Mrs. Oswald, a thousand thanks I This is too 
good ! Oh, how I thank you !” ‘ .i. • . ' 

But you will write Dunallan, my love?’* i.. /t . 

, f‘ Yes, I ought I must but I know not how^ ” 

“ Write naturally, my Catharine, w^rite just as you feel : I 
also shall writei by this evening’s 'post: our letters must go 
together, since I am to' say nothing about you. Your letter may 
cost you some thought ; I shall attend your school for you if 
you choose to return and write’ it) liow ; your guests will expect 
you to join them soon.” ' . v ! 

~ Catharine i gratefully accepted 'of Mrs.. Oswald’s offer'. She 
felt that her letter j.would indeed cost her much thought. She 
dreaded betraying the slightest feeling of disappointment ; and 
she equally. dreaded any expression escaping her that friendship 
alone might 'not .dictate. After manyehanges, and stilf unsat- 
isfied wdth what she had , written, she was obliged to conclude 
and join her guests, ii ‘ | ..i . , . . f • i. 



, i - . { '.-r CHAFTKII* XV.»: ^ ' •> * > -> 

' Calmer^ feelings gradually took '-the- place, -in Catharine’s 
mind, of those painful emotions which Dunallan’s letter had 
oc‘casioned, but with intervals of extreme sadness. She attempted 
•to banish the idea of Dunallan altogether ; but she w^as not at 
all times either so completely on her guard against the recollec- 
tions that stole into her mind, .as to be prepared ito struggle 
against their admission, or so wise as to turn from those. dreams 
of happiness, the indulgence of which always added pain to the 
reality. The season, too, added to her sadness. It was now 


KNOW WilAT YOU JUDGE. 


23o 


towards the end of autumn ; the cold evenings, and sometimes 
sweeping blasts, which rapidly thinned tlie woods of their 
foliage, seemed to announce the near approach of winter ; while 
the bright sunshine, and freshness of .the air, made walking 
still delightful in the early part of tlie day. Catharine from her 
childhood had been deeply alive to the influence of nature ; her 
spirits had always been subject to its power in an uncommon 
degree ; and now she yielded without resistance to its impres- 
sion. Most of • the time which was not spent in those occu- 
pations she considered as sacred duties, or in company, was spent 
in wandering alone through the beautiful scenery of Arnmore. 
She did not feel that religion forbade the soft melancholy inspired 
by a view of nature in its decay ; on the contrary, she found 
that, between nature and religion, there was an analogy so 
strong, and so perfect, that the one was the most exquisitely pleas- 
ing and beautiful illustration of the other ; and she sought, as her 
greatest pleasure, those scenes which,"suiting the deepest feelings 
of her soul, so elevated those feelings, as to make all enjoyment, 
unconnected with religion, appear to be of no value whatever. 
Her mind became stronger from exertion ; and though, when 
she sometimes turned her thoughts to the future, her heart 
sickened at the disappointment of all her hopes, she at other 
times could look forward with composure, regarding life in its 
real light, as a -preparation for. another state of existence- — a 
mere journey, in which it was of little consequence what hap- 
pened to us, provided we did not deviate from the path which 
led to a happy immortality. 

ATiother letter from Dunallan destroyed for a time her tran- 
quillity and strength of mind. This letter was even more cold 
and formal than the last ; it was almost cruelly so, Catharine 
thought ; and a feeling of resentment made her at first deter- 
mine not to reply to it. She, however, overcame this, feeling, and 
•answered it immediately. 

Another letter soon followed ; not so very cold as the former, 
but shorter, and, if possible, less expressive of interest. ‘ 

Catharine now began to dread Dunallan’s return more than 
any thing that was likely to happen to her. She felt a painful 


236 


duna'Llan; or,/ 


apprehension, indeed almost a certainty, that a change so com- 
plete, from at least- tender interest, to total indifference, or even 
dislike, must have 'some deeper cause than the dread of her 
becoming too fondly.' attached to him. The idea of Aspasia 
sometimes haunted hery.las a vision of every thing dreadful; 
but she would not suffer a thought to dwell on such a subject ; 
it ' Seemed ungenerous, j unjust, injurious to Dunallan — it was 
misery to herself. She saw, however, that Mrs.- Oswald -in vain 
attempted! to. assume her usual cheerfulness, 'f She often forgot 
that Catharine was present, and, stopping her.! work, would sit 
for many minutes in deep and apparently painful thought; then 
recollecting herself, would begin to talk in a tone of gaiety too 
Evidently forced to deceive. This thoughtfulness increased after 
receiving a letter from Dunallan, for which she had expressed 
considerable impatience, but which seemed to have entirely 
disappointed her. ‘ ' r ' :i ^ 

Catharine now dreaded that Dunallan had met with some 
amiable,, being like himself, who had taught him to feed- more 
■keenly the misery of that hatefuhtie, which bound him to herself 
for ever, Tet she thought that- his principles, imperfectly )a;s 
she knew them, ought to have secured him from this tlanger, or 
at least from the indulgence of it. i But all regarding hirn was 
now'involved in an uncertainty so painful, that Catharine wislu^d 
•to banish himi completely from- her - thoughts, and to leaye her 
fate entirely at the disposal of that Being who alone had.- any 
control over the future. This was a)ditficult(task ; , but other 
feelings for Dunallan began to gam ground, f, Her admiration 
and tenderness for him had been greatly heightened from having 
/found his character-: so totally’different fromvwhather imagina- 
‘tioni had represented himland frocm, feeling that she had joined 
-in the- unjust and injurious opinion vwhieh those atound her had 
dorm ed of him. His manner and conduct to herself hadi also 
won her affections sufficiently to make his^excellence.qf, ,char- 
tacter a delightful subject of contemplationi; but now that a 0loud 
liung over him, her first feelings, in regard .to him, in some 
degree, resumed their influence., d She believedt him good, but 
■she thought him at .least singular, ' >■; 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


237 


“ I see, ray dear Catharine,” said Mrs. Oswald to her one 
day, “that your opinion of Dunallan begins to change. I entreat 
you to struggle against this. I feel quite certain that time will 
prove, that he does not merit less of your esteem than when 
you parted.” ' ^ i r •' 

“ I do struggle, my dear madam, to form a just opinion of 
Mr. Dunallan,” replied Catharine; “but, in reality, I know 
very little of diim. I met him at first, 3 mu know, with a thou- 
sand prejudices against him ; and though we passed six weeks 
in the same house, these prejudices. continued so powerful, that, 
though I saw him act, and heard him speak continually in such 
a way as, on recollection, I feel ought to have overcome those 
prejudices, he still continued, in my opinion, the same character 
in a great degree, which my imagination had jiictured him. 
M hen I accompanied him here-, and'found him so considerate — 
so delicate — so generous to m^'^self, and saw him so beloved by 
3 'ou and all around him, I immediately went to the opposite ex- 
treme ; and from the few most engaging, most happy daj^s I 
then passed in his society", my imagination was forming a char- 
acter far‘too perfect to be real.” 

“ Possibly it might, m}' dear ; but all I ask is, that, in attempt- 
ing to form this just opinion, you will leave his present, to me 
unaccountable, conduct out of the ([uestion.” ' 

“I shall try to do so.' If you knew, however, my dear ‘Mrs. 
Oswald, how useful his present coldness has been to me, I be- 
lieve you would not, on my account at least, regret it.” " 
“You have sup|X)rted it as I should have desired, my Catha- 
rine ; far better, I confess, than I should have expected.” 

“ Ah madam, you have not seen ni}' heart ; but I know it 
myself better now. I* thought all was right; I thought I had 
discovered the cause why every pursuit had ended in disappoint- 
ment, until I attempted those pointed out to me by Mr. Dunal- 
lan. I supposed they continued to increase in interest because 
they aimed at the everlasting improvement of m}^ fellow-crea- 
tures ; but when first I became convinced that Mr. Dunallan 
had lost all interest in me and my pursuits, they became irk- 
some to me. I discovered that 1 had been acting from no higher 


238 


DUVALL an; or, 


motives than the hope of his approbation. Now 1 know better, 
and have learnt now to feel pleasure in fulfilling Mr. Dunallan’s 
wishes, without expecting the reward of his approbation, though 
I still value that also.” 

“ I rejoice, my Catharine,” replied Mrs. Oswald, “ that you 
have . gathered this lesson from any source. It is a sad decep- 
tion to think we are doing all to please God, when, in reality, 
we are idolizing a fellow-creature. Your future life, my love, 
Avill be the more happy for this.” 

Catharine was not unhappy now ; she had learnt to think less 
of Dunallan. His idea, when it did return to her, was always 
painful, and, even when absent, depressed her spirits ; for, if her 
natural gaiety of heart attempted to return, somethmg painful 
checked it, and then she recollected Dunallan. 

Winter luul now closed in, and Catharine was obliged to seek 
her pleasures and employments chiefly within doors. ‘ The 
weather was wet, cold, and dreary. 

Among all those who had visited Catharine during the sum- 
mer and autumn, there were but few persons who had really 
gained any share of her affections. Among these was a young 
girl, named Helen Graham. 

Helen Graham was one of, the six daughters of a gentleman 
in the neighborhood, whose fortune was too limited to allow 
much to be bestowed on their education ; yet whose pride* of 
family led him to dread, as the greatest disgrace, any matri- 
monial connection for his daughters, with families in the least 
degree inferior to his own in antiquity and other similar vir- 
tues. 

Helen Graham was an uncultivated, romantic girl, with the 
most ardent affections. She read novels and poetry in abun- 
dance, and often had attempted to express her own glowing feel- 
ings in rhyme, but would have suffered the torture sooner than 
that any eye should have seen those indeed very imperfect pro- 
ductions. On first becoming acquainted with Catharine, she 
had felt overawed by her superiority, and regarded her as a 
model of the most perfect excellence. Her ease and , grace of 
mjmners — her beauty — her variety of conversation — her in- 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


239 


formation — her acquirements, all were far superior to those of 
the most admired of her former companions. Catharine, on 
her part, had remarked', the extreme, even painful bashfulness 
of Helen’s, manner, when compelled to come into notice, con- 
trasted with the intelligence of her looks, and the expressive 
energy of her language and manners, when she mixed, uncon- 
scious of being observed,’ in general conversation. There was 
something in this mixture of bashfulness and apparent talent 
which excited Catharine’s interest ; she attempted to win Helen 
to be at her ease with her, and in doing this, treated her with a 
degree of kindness which Helen soon returned with the most 
unbounded and devoted affection. Catharine could not be in- 
sensible to this real and ardent regard ; on the contrary, she 
returned it with a warmth that surprised herself ; for she had 
supposed tfeat Dunallan’s disappointing conduct towards her had 
given her affections a chill that they would not recover 'on this 
side the grave ; but she found, that in. the devoted affection of 
.this ardent girl, the fondness of the children to whom she every 
day became more tenderly attached, ajid the maternal interest, 
and kindness of Mrs. Oswald, her heart was satisfied. ' , ' { 

; I could be content to live during the. whole of my pilgrimage 
•on 'earth in this little society,” said she one evening to Mrs. 
Oswald and Helen, after a long winter day, in whichf. snow had 
been falling without ceasing ; “ but I must insist on your leaving 
us, Helen, very soon, to go to Edinburgli, as your father wishes.” 

Helen smiled, “ I cannot go now,” replied she, my aunt has 
set off without me.” . 

■ “ How ! why., did she not come for you as I supposed she 

would?” ^ ^ 

“ oil, never mind,” replied Helen,' gaily, “she knew I did not 
wish to go. I shall now be permitted to remain with you all 
the Avinter, if you will allow me to stay.” ’ 

“ No, indeed, my dear, kind Helen.” 

“ Tlien I must go home, for my aunt has taken Jane instead 
of me, and she can have but one of us. Jane wished to go.; 
and there is not a spot in the universe which will ever be^so 
dear to me as this. What is there in Edinburgh that could 


240 


DUNALLAN ; OR, 


interest me^ while'I thought I might in the very least degree add 
to your happiness;: Catharine ? ” ” . . < - 

“ My dearest (Helen, you distress me.” • * 

“Do you think, Catharine, L should have been married, diad 
I gone to Edinburgh?” asked Helen; playfully, “for that is 
what my father and aunt expect.” ^ ; 'i m ' 

“ Perhaps, my dear Helen, you might have attained to that 
envied'ustate,” replied ^Catharine, smiling, and then sighing 
deeply. ' ' ' i- ‘ 

(• Helen w^as shocked at her own forgetfulness, though she only 
dreaded having reminded Catharine of Dunallan’s -absenee, 
-which she supposed was the cause of her- occasionab fits of 
sadness. . i * ' 

Cathanne kissed her cheek affectionately. ' - ’ 

“I 'believe, mytdear Helen, I must be so selfish ;4s - to ‘ allow 
you to be happy in your own way, till I can myself take^ you >in 
search of this husband.” - ‘ ^ 

The itime again approached in which Catharine expected to 
hear from Dunallan'; and though 'his letters now only gave her 
pain, yet she anxiously looked for their arrival ; and as the 
‘Snow cofitinued )to fall, and deepen imore and >more, she began 
to dread that the roads might be shut up so as to prevent- these 
letters reaching Mrs. Oswald on herself. She at times dreaded 
Diinallan’s coming unexpectedly himself. At last letters did 
arrive ; Catharine’s hands trembled as she broke the seal : after 
reading a few lines — , > 

“ He is in England ! ” exclaimed she, becoming very pale, 
then feeling unable to restrain her emotion, she hurried out of 
the room. When alone, she threw herself on her knees, and 
spreading Dunallan’s letter before her, “ Whatever are its con- 
tents, I shall receive them thus,” thought she, again beginning 
to read the still loved characters — 

“ INIy dear Catharine : Allow me to return you my grateful 
thanks for .your last letter^ Be 'assured I am most sensible of 
your goodness, your generosity, in so unweariedly persevering 
in your attempts to satisfy my wishes regarding those affairs, 
with which you say I intrusted you: I shall soon, I hope, be 


KNOW WHAT YOL' JUDGE. 


241 


I able in person to express my gratitude for all the trouble you 
have taken to please me; and perhaps to convince you' that J 
am not quite the exactmg being, (jour letters too plainly tell 
me, you* suppose me to be. I arrived in England. two days ago, 
and in London yesterday. I shall not be detained here above a 
day /or two, and then, .propose setting lofi immediately for Arn- 
more. May I hope you will receive me still, as a friend. I 
claim nothing in this character but the right .of watching over 
your happiness. I ask nothing morCj than that you should 
believe that I ain, ever your sincerely attached friend. '41 

“E. Dunallan.” t 

*■; -r iM'f 

“And it is I who deserve blame, then ! ” thought Catharine^ 
when she had finished Dunallan’s letter. .“I have disgusted by 
my very desire to ^fulfil his wishes. Surely, surely, Dimallan, 
this is a little unfair; but I care, not. Jf you feel more satisfied 
in .believing it is so, I shall- not/ vindicate myself, but submit. 
Oh ! that I could fix all my affections where there is no injusJ 
tice, no disappointment.” •• u.'/r ’ ’ : -r*. r .x " 

This letter, however, was kind cotnpared to Dunallan’s; la.'^tt 
andjCatharine felt, while she wept over it, that, mixed as they 
were with unjust complaints, his expressions of interest, and the 
ex[X3Ctation of so soon again meeting him, too powerfully revived 
those feelings of tenderness which slie* had of Ja.te supposed 
almost entirely overcome. Those feelings,! she now^ greatly, 
dreaded; and, earnestly praymg for power to resist thenqishc! 
determined to return to Mrs. Oswald, that she might escape-frohl 
the many softening recollections which crowded on. her memory^ 
Mrs. Oswald was alone when Catharine entered the room; 
her' countenance expressed, thei utmost .^satisfaction. " ikd. 

‘ “ Now, my dear love,” exclaimed she, embracing Catharine 
tenderly, “ I shall again see you happy. All will now be rex- 
plained.” '■ rr,, ,i. )i ' 

“ But, my dear Mrs. Oswmld, I hope you still consider ybur 
promise to me sacred ? • You will ask no explanation ? ’!i . . ; , r 
“No, no, my love,, I shall not find that necessaryy Dimallan 
21 


242 


PUNALLAN ; Oil, 


has no! concealments ; he will himself wish to explain every 
thing.” - ' - • " ‘ f : : f)— 

*. Mrs. Oswald seemed to enjoy a new existence. ‘ 

“ Do yon think, my dear madam,” said Catharine, after looking 
earnestly towards a window for some moments, “ don’t you think 
the snow has-fallen so deep, that perhaps the cross road between 
Arnmore and the great road may be shut up ? 'Should it not bo 
cleared away ? Mr. Dunallan may be stopped.” ; . 

- “ Surely,, my love, if it is necessary.” - . o- 

“ I think, my dear Mrs., Oswald, as he has left every thing 
to my care, I oughfnot to suffer so chilling an impediment to 
meet him on his return home. Ills feelings require no addition 
to their coldness, I fear, at least for some of the inmates of his 
Arnmore. Shall I order the snow to be cleared away, my -dear 
madam ? ” ^ 

“ Surely, my Catharine, and also endeavor to clear away 
those unkind thoughts of my poor Edward from your own 
heart.” • - hi ‘ '■ 

“ Your poor Edward ! ” repeated Catharine, smiling sadly ; 
“ -I wish I could banish those thoughts of liini which at this 
moment force themselves upon me.” She turned awmy to cbn^ 
ceal her tears ; but quickly recovering herself. “ We must not 
delay, my dear madam — let us send for Mr. Gray directly, and 
tell him to have the road opened.” She laid her hand on the 
bell-rope, but stopped, and smiling faintly, said, “ I must not tell 
them their master is just coming home, with tears in my eyes. 
They may, perhaps, see me look still more sad, however, after 
he is come,” added she, pulling- the cord. 

A servant appeared. ; ' i 

“ John, Mr.- Dunallan is to l>e‘ home in a day or two.” The 
man’s countenance brightened with joy: “ My master, 
madam ? ” • 

“ Yes, John, and we wish to see Mr. Gray, immediately.” 
John hurried' awmy to tell the joyful tidings to the other ser- 
vants, and- their happy exclamations readied- even the apartment 
where Catharine was. Mrs. Oswald looked at her; Catharine 


KNOW MIIAT YOU JUDGE. 


243 


smiled sadly. “I know, my dear madam, how 'much he is 
beloved,” said she. 

Mr. Gray soon appeared, his countenance radiant with joy, 

“ What happy news, madam ! this will be a joyful day for 
Arninorc ! ” 

“Yes, Mr. Gray; and I wish to ask you whether 'it will be 
necessary to clear the roads ? ” 

-“I thought of that, madam, the -moment John came to fetch 
me,+and sent off a man to examine. I shall, if you please, now 
go myself. ” 

Catharine begged he would. 

Soon all was bustle. Every servant in the house seemed . 
anxious to assist in hastening Dunallan’s return, by clearing 
away every impediment. In 'a short time, all the snow near 
the house was out of sight ; and that on the road in the avenue 
was quickly disappearing. Catharine became more and more 
sad in the general joy, and retired to her own apartment to 
conceal a melancholy so unsuitable. She partook, however 
in the restlessness which pervaded the whole family. She 
could settle to nothing, but to dreams of the future, which were 
at times too painful, and at other times too softening to be' in- 
dulged. When obliged again to join the others, the happy 
looks of Mrs. Oswald, Helen’s congratulations, and the bound- 
less joy of the children overcame both her sadness and her 
apprehensions for the future, at least for a time; but nothing 
could long banish the idea of her first meeting with Dunallaii. 
She thought, if that was once over, she would know every 
thing ; his manner then would teach her all she had to Iiope' or 
fear. * ^ ’ 

’ Catharine never felt more relieved, than when the hour 
arrived to separate for tlie night. She longed for the undis- 
turbed quiet of her own apartment ; but here she had tO‘ meet 
the joyful 'exclamations of- Martin, whose unusual loquacity, 
and delighted look she felt unwilling for a time to check. 

“Never did I see such joy,” said Martin; “and it is' chiefly 
on your account, ma’am.” '' ^ 

, “On my account?” * 


,244 


DUNALLAN ; OR, 


“ Yes, .ma’am, the people say you will now be- rewarded for 
all your goodness to them in Mr. Dunallan’s absence ; and for 
your charities to his poor, and your care of the young. I am 
sure I do not know, ma’am, whether they love you or Mr. Dun- 
allan most ; but, to be sure, they say you'were made for each 
Qtb^r, and to be a blessing to ail around you.’^ 

Catharine only sighed, and soon dismissing Martin, attempt- 
ed to ) collect her ideas, and prepare for the future, whatever 
it might bring. She had long before this made herself -fully 
acquainted with the duties prescribed in Scripture to those in the 
married state. “ These must now be my rule,” thought she, 
“whatever Dunallaii’s conduct to me may be.” Slie again 
recalled those duties, and prayed earnestly for ])ower to fulfil 
her ipart, independent of Dunallan’s performance of his. Her 
mind became crOmposed, and she began to perceive those mer- 
cies in her present situation, which she had now learned to 
remark, w’cre always mixed in the cup of suffering. “ How 
thankful ought I to feel !” 'thought she, “ that in my duties 
there is nothing difficult or revolting to me. I am commanded 
to love-itbis .husband; he might have been such as to excite 
only disgust; ibut, on the contrary, my duty is too easy. lam 
coimnaifded to submit niyself to’ him ; this, too, as most easy, 
{ uperior as he is; had -he been otherwise how' would my proud 
heart have rebelled. I may Avatch unnoticed till I discover his 
wishes, and then attempt to submit to them whatcATu* they are.” 
.Catharine wept Avhile she formed this .plan for the future ; yet 
there Avas something not unplcxasing in the idea of thus fulfilling 
the duty of the Avife of Dunallan, cold and unkind as she noAV 
expected to find him. 

Kext morning, Catharine again reneAA^ed her/ attempts to gain 
that composure! uud, self-command shooforesaAv she Avould 
require* She, sought them by those means she had never yet 
found to fipl, wlien perseveringly applied for; 'and Avhen she 
again met Mrs.. OsAvald, the i calmness and 'elevation, and com- 
posure of her looks,- betrayed the peace she enjoyed. 

Mrs. OsAvald Avas alone — her countenance brightened. “ My 
love, your looks delight me ; your hour this morning has been 


KNOW WUAT YOU JUDGE. 


24o 


liappily spent ; you have learned to regard the future with 
juster expectations.” ' ■ ■ .i 

“ I have been attempting to learn, my dear kind Mrs. Oswaldj 
to look for whatever is sent' me as an intended blessings however 
painful I may feel it,; or however !-humbling to my proud 
nature.” b- . , 

“ Well, my love, that is best, because you cannot be disap- 
pointed.” -Jj. .[ -{Uf , 

oi; After breakfiast, Catharine went to visit, her school.^ The 
children themselves liad kept the path from thence to the castle 
free from snow, though the task. had not been an easy one, from 
the frequent showers that liad fallen. On this day the wind was 
high, and piercingly cold, and drifted the snow so as to make 
walking very unpleasant : but Catharine ivas of too ardent a 
disposition to be deterred from what she considered a duty by 
such impediments ; and, wrapped in her large cloak, herxom- 
2)lexion brilliantly heightened by the cold and exercise, she 
soon reached her school. The universal joy had also arrived 
here ; the children could scarcely attend, and even their old, and 
usually grave and silent schoolmistress seemed to have, for- 
gotten every thing but Mr.. DunaiUm’s return, f ' i ‘ 

‘‘The children have all learned more than you desired, madam, 
that they may show liow much they love you;. for, if you re- 
•member,, madam, you said once, that if they wished , to rove 
that they felt obliged for your kindnessj as they said they did, 
.they must do so by being busy good children in Mr. Dunallan’s 
absence.”; ■ <. / ' 

■t. ,The children blushed and smiled, and Catharine soon found 
that their love for her had made them wonderfully busy indeed. 

But Dunallan will tiike no inte.fest-in all this now'! ’’idhought 
she, as the girls showed her all they had. learned ; then recollect- 
dng., that the good Was equally aceoinplished by storing the 
memories of the young creatures around her wdtii the most use^ 
ful of all knowledge, she mentally thanked heaven that any 
cause had j)roduced so good an eflibet, ,, . : . ’ * 

Catharine si>CJd ^longer tlian usual with her schooh When 
she returned, she retired to her own ajjartment, and, tranquil and 

21 


246 


DUNALLAN ; OR, 


. r- i 


composed, she felt that even now she could meet -Dunallan with 
little emotion, “and in a day or two,” thought -she, 1 shall be 
quite prepared for whatever I may have to feeL” 

' The short day was closing in w^hen she again joined Mrs. 
Oswald in the drawing-room. It had" continued stormy and 
gloomy. Mrs. Oswald and the children stood at a window. 
Catharine joined them. u . ■ uw ^ ^ 

“ The people continue to clear aw'ay the snow as it falls,” 
said Mrs. Oswald; “I cannot convince them that there' is no 
chance of Edward’s coming to-day.” ■ ' 

“ Look ! look ! Aunt Dunallan,” exclaimed little Mary ; “ is 
not that a carriage moving far away among the trees ? ” 

“A carriage!” repeated Catharine, “ surely not;” her heart 
began to beat quick. • “ Can it be possible JMr. Dunallan may 
come sooner than ? ” 

“ It is, it is a carriage I ” exclaimed the child, “ I see it quite 
plain.” 

■ Catharine stopped to look in the -same direction. “It is 
indeed,” said she, turning to Mrs. Oswald, and becoming: quite 
pale. i , . '' 

Mrs. Oswald now perceived it also. “ Thank God ! ” ex- 
claimed she, clasping her hands joyfully, “ it must be Edward.” 

The carriage now approached rapidly, and the people who 
had been employed in clearing awa}' the snow, showed by their 
joyful gestures that it contained their master. ' i , 

“ Let us be ready to receive him in the hall ! ” exclaimed Mrs. 
Osw'ald ; “ come, my Catharine.” Catharine hesitated. The 
children flew out) of the room. “Will you not at least meet 
him kindly, Catharine ? ” : ' , » . . 

_“ Would he wish it,* madam?” asked Catharine, pale and 
trembling,' and tears starting into her eyes. • 

'“ Surely, my Catharine; at any rate it is 'right; it is proper 
you should.” ij ’* ■; ; . 

“ Then I will, madam.” . < ■ > 

“ Lean on me then, my love, for you tremble sadly,” said 
Mrs,’ Oswald, taking Catharine’s arm in hers, and hurrying her 
out of the room. * J - 

• * . i ' - 


KNOW* WHAT .YOU JUDGE. 


247 


The hall door was opened by the servants, who now respect- 
fully retired [to a distance, and left Mrs. Oswald, ' Catharine and 
the children, tO' re'ceive Dunallan, wdiose carriage rapidly apr 
proached. The wind whistled through the large hall, and moved 
;the pictures from the walls ; the children stood in the cold blast, 
their eyes ; eagerly bent on the carriage, but constantly dimmed 
by the tears produced by the piercing breeze. Catharine’s dress 
and hair w^ere disturbed, but she felt it not. 

.i“What a reception for you, my: dear Edward !'!’ said Mrs. 
Oswald, as she observed the wind drift the snow into a window 
of his carriage, wdiich he had letdown as he .approached ; “but 
you will find warmth and comfort soon,” added she, pressing 
Catharine’s hand in hers. jd? , ; • »- I ;i i ; 

“ Will he leave all the cold behind him ? ” said Catharine. • 
“ For shame, rhy Catharine.-' jTf you value your own happi- 
ness — if you value his happiness, .receive him kindly, ’’Whis- 
pered Mi's. Oswald. .1 : ' ; r: ! u. ^ ’ 

The carriage stopped, and Catharine’s heart seemed to stop 
beating. The door wms instantly opened, and she saw' that it 
w'as Dunallan. She saw him alight, hut not with the quickness 
of joy ; he approached. r ' l * vr ' 1 ;;;r; i-ii];/ ; * 

“My dear aunt! Catharine!” he pressed her to his breast, 
and put his cold dieek i to hers for; ‘an instant ; then hurried 
from her, and clasi>ed his;aunt,— then, the. children,. fondly to-liis 
heart. juui e;;'- :i\-rrA\ . ;u •! ;: iU;*; ; 

“How dreadfully cold you < are/ dear : Dunallan,” i said Mrs. 
Osw’ald ; do come into the warm* room.’fil : ] . e 

Dunallan stopped to notice, .with, his usual friendly, kindness, 
the servants who had) now crowded -into the hall ; Catharine 
stopped unconsciously' also. When! Dunallan turned to go into 
the w'arm apartment, he held> out his hand for her; she gave it 
him, but hot readily. - ? ' . . * 

“ You fear I shall chill you, Catharine,” said lie, in a low tone 
of yoice, as they entered the room'. . . . ■ j 

“Oh, no,” replied she, eagerly, and taking his hand in both 
of hers, “ you are indeed terribly cold,” said she^ gently. 

Dunallaiii looked at her for a moment, then w ithdrew his hand 


'248 


dunallan; or, 


almost ruddy, and. turning hastily from her, stoopt^d down to 
Icaress the children who 'dung about him; Catharine, abashed, 
and 'deeply hurt, retired to a -sofa,' where she was shaded’ from 
the light of the firej wliieli' Mrs. Oswald, anxious again to see 
the countenance of her beloved nephew, now made blaze with 
most unmerciful brig^itness. But Dunallan seemed -unwilling 
to gratify this wish of his aunt’s ; ihe continued for some time to 
fondle the children, so as to completely .conceal his face. ^ - 
.• ‘-^AVe’ did not '-'hopei to see'Jyou So soon,' my dear Edwatd,’* 
said Mrs; Oswald. ■ . -nt i ./'Pj ) 

have beenuanxious to get home,’^ replied he ; “ I have 
reasons for being so, and did hot remain inaLondon a bnoment 
after I had settled the business regarding my mission abroad, 
and thereiwas little tofsettlei’* I r' [>f '.-r *. T 

Did you find the roads open everywhere b” . i i * 

“ Everywhere. 4 I feared JE might be stopped, near home, but 
that I might have foreseen; you, my dear, aunt, would pre- 
vent.” 1 rrfr J ; 'd'trt t ;' ) j - tC J. " 

i “ Catharine^ at least, did;” replied Mrs. Oswald; “for i really 
had not thoughtlof it dll she reminded me.” ; .. ici ; = 

“ Catharine ! ” repeated Dunallan, looking/ towards’ where 
she sat. • tl *• ' J -mI " ! 

Catharine: was silent; ’indeed her heartiwas too full to fallow 
her to speak, p ’She was' now struck, .however, with ^the change 
in Dunallan s looks. He was thin and pale; and there was a 
languor in his/eyes 'which >she immediafely supposed must have 
been occasioned by illness; indeed, liis whole appearance was 
sc different from what 'her imagination had Of late pictured him, 
that she forgot 'all her causes of displeasiire.i ■ // all 

‘H^Mward ! ”. exclaimed Mrs. Oswald, “ you have been ill ! I 
am sure you have. Why did you conceal 4ti from us?” ' 

“I fear you have, Mr. Dunallan,” said Catharine, in a’ voice 
of the deepest interest, r ’ln! i ■ • -f 

Some very painful recollections seemed to return to Dunallan’s 
memory, and changed^ the expression of hk'count’enance *to a 
graveness almost stern.’ “.I haVe not been one day seriously 
dll, in health at' least, since I left Arnmore,” reified he; and 


KNO\V: WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


249 


then pnttingrthe children gently from him, he rose and‘ stood so 
as to turn his< face from thedight. r . > f ' : i. ^ | ‘Ji.-: 

Catharine now felt only for him. it“ I' have' guessed too' truly,” 
thought she,-“ he has had some cause of ‘uneasiness quite as se- 
rious as any I have feared.” Aspasia — another attachment—- 
dashed' upon her thoughts, but she turned from them. 

A painful silence ensued. -. Catharine felt anxious to relieve 
Dunallan; and, scarcely knowing Avhat >'she said, mhde some 
inquiry regarding a Russian winter lie entered eagerly into 
the subject, which soon led to others ; and then he succeeded, 
asiin former times, so completely in interesting' his hearers, as 
to draw their thoughts from any other subject but that on whicdi 
lie ■ conversed. He desfcribed some ■ characters with whom’ he 
had lassociated while abroad, and entered -freely and openl}^ into 
the nature of the affair whichl’hadf induced -him to leave his 
country ; expressing, with' much feeling, his gratitude to heaven 
for the rapid and unexpected success \vhich had'attendcd his^ 
eiforts, and for. the ease - with "which* every’ difficulty' had been 
overcome. He had- at first stood near* Catliarihe ' tvliilc he 
spoke, he then seated himself by heft The light' was full upon 
him while she still cefntinued -in 'the' shade, so.’ that could 
more easily-observe the expressiomi of his* countenance ; but 
though animated, he continuc*tl to look grave and melancholy. 
The children again hung upon him, and' he returned thcir little 
caresses with the utmost tenderness. * Mrs. Oswald, too,' had 
brought her chair close to whererhe sat, tin d regarded him with 
looks of the greatest anxiety and Concern.- ‘ ' 

“ Dear affectionate little ^creatures ! ” kaid Dunallan, pressing ‘ 
the children fondly to his breast, “ absence ‘^Cems to make ydu 


feel only more kindly.” ‘ ' 

“Aunt Dunallan -says that is ahvays the case "for those we 
really love,” said 'the eldest child;''’*'-’*''' ; f- !;/-'* 

“ Does Aunt. Dunallan -say so?” replied Dunallan, stooping to 
c;iress the child oso’ as “to conceal hi^Taec, ’’which' 'had in a 


moment been again overcast. '"' " 

“Yes, uncle. Aunt ^Dunallan has 


often ' said so when you 


were away.” 




2o0 


dunallan ; OR, ^ 


.Dunallan continued to lean over the child in 'gilehce, while* 
she proceeded : “ You know, Uncle Diinallan, the morning you 
went away you told Mary and I, that we must not allow Aunt 
Dunallan to forget you, so we talked to her every day about 
you.” 

“ And you teased Aunt Dunallan, I suppose, till she told you 
it was unnecessary to remind her so often of me, because she 
always felt most affectionately for those who were absent.” • 
“Oh! no, no, uncle, {Aunt Dunallan never tired of our. 
speaking of you.” r. ■ i ‘ i'* ^ ^ 

“ Oh I never,” interrupted little Jilary ; “ For often when slie 
was too busy reading, or thinking, to mind when I spoke to her, 

I have said something about you, and then she put away the 
book, and took me up on, her lap, and kissed me,.ahd listened to 
me while: I spoke of you, an d| said I- was a' good child to 
remember so well abouf you, for 1 ought to love you more than 
anybody else in the world.” 4 *. . 

Dunallan pressed the child fondly to his heart, and then loo*k- 
ing at Gatharine with the only smile of real pleasure which 
had yet brightened his countenance, “ You have succeeded 
most astonishingly, Catharine,” said he, “in obliging yourself to 
meet all my wishes, however unreasonable — this lastiwas too 
severe.” ^ - u • 

The expression of Dunallan’sl countenance, and the softened 
tone of his voice, were so completely at variance with his words, ' 
that Catharine could not reply, and , felt quite relieved when 
Helen, at that moment, entered the room. She rose to meet 
her friend ; who seemed about to retreat, on observing the 
party so seated as to confirm her fears that she must be felt an 
intruder. i . 

Come, away, my dear girl,” said Mrs. Oswald. “This 
young lady, Edward, has preferred being with Catharine during 
this dreary season to all the gaieties of a.towuilife.’- 

The bashful Helen was unable, at any time,; to speak to a 
stranger without embarrassment, much less so to Dunallan, of 
whom she had formed the mo$t exalted idea. She hurriedly 
courtesied to him ; then glancing round, as if for some retreat. 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


2ol 


took possession of Catharine’s shaded comer in the sofa. Cath- 
arine also looked round for a retreat, for Dunallan’s eyes were 
fixed upon her as she now stood in the light. She turned away, 
for she’ had not yet met his looks, and unconsciously avoided 
them. At this moment, however, dinner was announced. Dun- 
allan did not, as formerly, offer his arm to Catharine, but stood 
coldly back till the ladies passed, and then followed them into 
the dining-room. All was -here in a blaze of light ; and Cath- 
arine, seated opposite to Dunallan, could no longer avoid that 
interchange of looks whiclDbetrays far more than language can 
conceal. Conscious that his always returned to her, the moment 
after he had^with his usual gentle and willing politeness, attended 
to liis other guests, she felt confused and embarrassed. Dun- 
allan, hovvever, became less grave. He attempted to draw the 
blushing Helen into conversation, and succeeded wonderfully in 
finding subjects of sufficient interest to lead her to forget he was 
a stranger, and to converse easily with him. Ilis countenance 
at times expressed the i vivacity which usually brightened it; but 
a moment of thought destroyed those expressions, and restored 
languor and melancholy to his looks and manner. Catharine 
felt certain that' her fears and conjectures were too well founded ; 
but, as the evening advanced, she hoped that in one supposition 
she had been mistaken. Dunallan, she felt, was pleased with 
every mark of'>regard for him on her part. His smile of 
jileasure at what little 'Mary had told him was followed by looks 
of equal delight when any thing occurred to prove how much 
he had been the object of her thoughts during his absence. Yet 
his looks, when turned on her, did not express the same feelings 
as formerly. She even thought '^at moments, that he was less 
respectful to her; but he hir more frequently regarded her with 
interest, and at least mildness. 

^ . After tea, Helen left the room, . saying she had letters to 
write. Catharine guessed that her > real motive was to leave 
Dunallan at liberty to converse with his family, unrestrained 
by the presence of a stranger, and she sighed to think how 
little such attentions would be valued.' ' ' 

“ Talking of letters, my dear Edward,” said Mrs, Oswald, 


252 


DUN ALL AN; OR, 


“I must.e^y you were. not quite Eo-goddui^coiiTespondent during 
your last absence as formerly.” • 

Catharine. started .at this sudden introduction of a subject she 
hoped Mrs. Oswald had intended toiavoid ; and, becoming very 
pale, turned her eyes towards her with the most alarmed and 
beseeching expression; but Mrs. Oswald seemed determined 
not to .see lier ; she did not look tat Dunallan either, but kept 
her eyes fixed .on her work ; “ Your letters were ‘ few and far 
between,’ ” continued ishe.!<*'* - ( « • . . i- . 

Catharine’s heart beat almost to i suffocation ; Dunallan did 
not immediately reply ; and, -unconscious ) of what she did, she 
halC arose, 'looked towards the door, as if to escape, and then 
sat down again, becoming Still paler. ' mI 

“ Do not be alarmed, Catharine,” said Dunallan, with a low, 
and forced calmness of voice,. “ you have no cause;-r^ be assured 
you never shall have cause. Your peace of mind, whatever 
concerns you, is still as much my care as ever.”. He • ap- 
proached her as he spoke; she looked up and saw him greatly 
agitated. i , i . , ' Li : . • . 

“Mr. Dunallan,”/ said. Catharine, with i much emotion, “do 
not be 'SO constantly anxious, about my -peace of. mind — believe 
me, "I anr satisfied with the share of it which heaven has alotted 
to me.” ..il . . . -.'1;;..^'. ; 

Dunallan looked at her for a moment, asjif he did not under- 
stand her, then said, “Believe my assurances, Catharine,- and 
rely, on them whatever happens.”^ Then turning. ’to )Mrs.» Os- 
wald, “My dear aunt, I must request you for . once to forgive 
my being reserved with you. ,.pl confess] >I have been a very 
bad correspondent since I last left you ; but the cause, 'I entreat, 
you/ will never ask me to explain. -il know you will not when 
I tell you, that even the least reference to. the subject, is painful 
to me. To you, iCatharine,’!i added he, turning to her, “ I am 
always (; ready to be perfectly open on >this, and .every other 
subject, should you ever wish it.” ;< Dunallan then left-i the 
room. . .T ^ . ), ■}. - i: ,: - .j vj 

“ Oh, madam ! ” exclaimed Catharine, “ (what have ^you 
done! Mr. Dunallan, I see, thinks it is I who wish for an 
explanation.” 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


253 - 


« Forgive me, my Catharine, I thought I was doing right.- 
Things are more serious than I supposed. My dear Edward I' 
I fear something very serious has happened.” Mrs. Oswald 
seemed extremely uneasy. 

“ Whatever has happened, my dear madam,” said Catha- 
rine, warmly, “ let us not add to Mr. Dunallan’s too evident 
unhappiness, by suffering him to suppose that we regard him 
as improperly reserved to us. I cannot again speak on this 
painful subject to him, but he must know instantly that I sluill 
never, never ask any explanation.” Catharine then, as 
quick as her trembling hands would . permit, wrote these few 
lines: ■ . 

“ I entreat you, Mr. Dunallan, to forget what has just passed. 
Believe me, nothing would have induced me — nothing ever 
shall induce me — to intrude even in thought into your; feelings, 
or into the motives of any part of your conduct, which, to me, 
has ever been such as to inspire a gi'atitude which, were I not 
satisfied to owe it to you, would be (painfully oppressive. 

“ C, Dunallan.” 

Catharine gave her note to Mrs. Oswald : “ May I ask you 
to take this to him, my dear madam ; and perhaps also to 
exculpate me from the suspicion, that I thiiik myself entitled to 
know any thing he wishes to conceal ? You know^ my dfcar 
Mrs. Oswald, I never did.” 

Mrs. Oswald took the note, “ I shall do all you wish, my 
love.” , ,, 

Catharine waited in anxiety for Mrs. Oswald’s return — at 
last she approached. Catharine met her. ,, t ^ , 

I do not comprehend my- nephew at present,” said she ; •“ I 
never before found the least difficulty in understanding all he 
did or said.” ■ j ' ,j .:;y . t >i,i vj-ix . , , . - -t 

“ How, my dear madam ? ” 

“ When I went to him he met me with' his usual gentleness. 
He was walking slowly across the library with his arms folded 
on his breast, so deep in thought, he did not observe my entrance. 
When he did, he smiled with his own sweetness of expression, 

22 


254 


DUNALLAN; OR, 


and entreated me to forgive liim if he had said any thing too 
'warmly. ‘You would,’ added he, ‘ if you kneAV how painful 
any allusion to my correspondence with home was to me.’ I 

said I had come with a note from you, and . He did not- 

wait to hear what more I had to say, but eagerly took your 
note. He seemed disappointed, however, and was much dis- 
pleased with its contents. Again and again he read it, then 
crushed it indignantly in his hand, and turned as if to throw it 
in the fire, but did not. I then said, that it was I only Avho had 
Avished for an explanation, and that you wished him to know this. 
He again appeared displeased, but said, *' Tell Catharine I think 
I understand her. All shall remain as she wishes ; nor will I 
at present attempt to intrude into her feelings.’ These last 
words he repeated rather ironically.” 

“ What can he mean ? ” exclaimed Catharine ; “ but I have 
said that I Avill not attempt, even in thought, to account for his 
present conduct. I think I have discovered what my own duty 
is.' To fulfil that must now be my only aim.” 

Mrs. Oswald soon became silent and thoughtful. Catharine, 
too, began to think deeply, and in forming plans for the future, 
for a time completely forgot the present. She soon determined 
in her own mind, that she could best fulfil her duty to Dunallan, 
by carefully avoiding any reference to the past ; by herself at- 
tempting to be as cheerful as possible, and thus remove from 
him every cause of uneasiness on her account ; and by using 
every means in her poAver to draw his thoughts away from those 
unhappy recollections which seemed to oppress him. “ These 
must be my duties,” thought she, “ whatever has caused his pres- 
ent dejection. I must -not inquire into that, neither must I yield 
to pride, which’ might deter me from attempting to overcome 
Avhatever has produced the change in his feelings towards me, 
or from seeking his regard. It must be proper for the wife of 
Dunallan to possess his affections. I shall fnake the attempt, 
because both will be happy if I succeed ; if not, I shall at least 
have done my^luty. I may be mortified and humbled, but I 
have now learned that it is good for me to be so. Pride and 
false delicacy would naturally have been my guides. And the 
struggle must l)e duty against ])rlde, and against mv nature.” 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


255 


Thus far had Catharine proceeded in plans for the future, 
when a seryant entered to say, that Mr. Dunallan waited for the 
ladies in the library. With a beating heart, Catharine proceeded 
thither. Dunallan, with his habitual politeness., recognized their 
entrance, but immediately again fixed his eyes on the book in 
his hand. He stood till the ladies were seated, and Catharine, 
recollecting her newly formed resolutions, uninvited took her 
former place beside him. ^ • 

When the service was over, Dunallan turned to Catharine. 
“You persevered in reading to the servants, I find,” said he, in a 
grave, calm tone of voice. . . ^ r. 

“Yes,” said Catharine, “I kept up the form. It was a 
pleasure to me even to do that.” , . 

“ You did all, Catharine, that any one could do. Every re-, 
ligious duty is form, unless it is blessed /I’om above. I hope and 
trust your reading the Scriptures was so ; and ' I am certain,” 
added he, in a lower tone of voice, “you have my warmest grat- 
itude for so perseveringly fulfilling my request.” 

“ It is I who ought to be grateful,” replied Catharine, “for 
haying been led to fulfil a duty So useful to myself.” 

“Have you really found it so, Gafharine?.” asked Dunallan, 
on observing Mrs. Oswald and Helen engaged in conversation 
at some- distance, and looking earnestly at Cathaidne as iie 
spoke. . ... 

She blushed, “ I hope I have. If you think I deceive myself,t 
I know you will tell me.” i <_ ■ .. - i 

“It is too, too easy to deceive ourselves,” replied Dunallan, 
emphatically ; “ but the study of the/^ Bible, with- the sincere 
desire of understanding it, we are .sure, are the best means of 
enlightening any mind and conscience.” " • ' ; 

^ “Ido hope so,” observed Catharine, with- an expression of 
alarm and timidity on her countenance fi*oni the earnestness of 
Dunallan’s manner. 1 . f: ; . bint. 

“ Be assured they are,” said die, more gently, and turning from 
her, he joined Mrs. Oswald and Helen. ! 

. Mrs. Oswald soon proposed separating for the night. Her 
nephew, she said, must require repose. Dunallan had, in con- 


25G 


’ dunallan; oh, ^ 

versation, just betrayed his having travelled for the two preced- 
injr nichts. For what - reason ? thought ' Catharine, but ^she 
checked her curiosity, ' and instantly seconded- Mrs. Oswald's 
proposal to retire. , ' ^ ’ " d ! 

.0 A; O,. i.. h'n I.-'/J: ;■! . ■ ■ ■ ; 

.eiii i n ■ ' j .i ' ■ r— 7~, * M! - j - . 

:l )i : :■ i . ‘i.t .:!! nn n 

CHAPTER XVI. 

. iiti i'.’- ) f : 1 ..r 1 . /( 

' Catharine rose very early next 'niorning, long before the’ 
late and clouded sun, that slie might have her now indispen' 
sable hour of -solitude- and rejection, and' that she might also, 
before the family again met, visit ‘a poor old woman, who, iiii 
the view' of approaching death, seemed to find great consola- 
tion in her kindness. ’ The sun was -still so low in the sky as- to 
be concealed behind the woods of AiTimore, when * Catharine 
leturned from her expedition.' She found the family were just- 
assembling in the library, and,- hurrying off her walking dress,' 
she hastened do join them. ! She was, however,* the last. 

“I hear you were out, nty'dove,” V.'hispered Mrs. Oswald," 
as 'Catharine ptissed her, was that 'prudent* at such a 
seaton'?” '* 'd = ' i.liv/; .. i 

Catharine’s already brightened complexion became more 
glowing ; “ I shall account to you afterwards, my dear madam, 
for my* early' walk. I hoped' to - have returned sooner, — but, 
Mr. Dunallan, do not let me now detain you.” * 
r Dunallan* immediately' proceeded, i * . : » i , ; 

“ When the* servants* Avere again Avithdrawn, Mrs. Oswald' 
renewed her inquiries. “ Where in the AAtorld Avere you, Cath- 
arine ?” ■ ) '• . '....idi ■ . , . 

I shall tell you at-*^ another- -time, my dear madam,^’ replied 
she, observing that Dunallan’^ eyes were fixed'.upon her. • ^ 

Dunallan turned away, and immediately left the room. ‘ 

“ Oh !' I* have offended^ him ! ” exclaimed Catharine. “How 
wrong! I ought to have n0‘ concealments Avith him.^’ 

“Indeed, my love, he is -quite unaccountable,” said Mrs. 
Oswald. “'Before you . came' he seemed quite miserable 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


257 


a])Out you, and reproached me almost with severity for suffer- 
ing you to expose your precious liealth in such a manner ; yet 
when you appeared, he assumed a coldness of looks which 1 
am sure was a mere disguise. There is some strange 
mystery in all this. But tell me, Catharine, where have you 
been ? ” 

Catharine satisfied IMrs. Oswald’s curiosity in a few words, 
and described the scene she had just Avitnessed ; they then 
proceeded to the breakfast room. Catharine intended imme- 
diately, on again meeting him, to mention to Dunallan the 
object of her early walk, but he instantly began to talk'on 
another subject. He looked more himself this morning, though 
still looking ill, and at times very grave, yet he became more 
cheerful every moment. Catharine’s ease and playfulness 
returned with his returning smiles, and again, as formerly, she 
began to look, unconsciously, for the expression that what she 
had just said, produced in his countenance, before she felt 
satisfied that she was right.' 

Mrs. Oswald listened with delight to a conversation which 
seemed to promise returning confidence and happiness. It Avas 
soon interrupted, however, by a servant announcing a visitor ; 

“ Doctor Angus, the Avorthy clergyman of the parish.” Dunal- 0 
Ian for a moment seemed disappointed, but the happy looks of 
the good man, immediately recalled his kinder feelings, and he 
hastened to meet him Avith the utmost cordiality. 

“ My dear sh,” said the doctor, “ excuse this early visit. I 
could not resist coming to Avelcome you home.” 

“ Thank you, doctor,” said Dunallan, “ I intended to have vis- 
ited you this morning.” 

“ Your horses are noAV at the door, dear sir,” said the doctor, 
Avhich induced me to intrude before you Avent out.” 

“ Do you mean to ride this very cold day, Mr. Dunallan ? ” 
asked Catharine, anxiously; “surely a little rest- after your 
late fatigues AX'ould be better.” 

Dunallan smiled : “ I do not think that you, Catharine, are 
much entitled to prescribe care and avoiding of cold and so 


on 


• 22 * 


258 


DUN ALL an; or, 


“Indeed,” said the doctor, “if Mrs. Dunallaii did not 
prove so incontrovertibly by her looks that she does not 
suffer from her disregard of weather, and every difficulty, 
when bent on doing good, I should say she exposed Imrself 
rather too much. You, sir,” continued the doctor, anxiously, 
“ do not appear to have of late enjoyed the blessing of health 
so perfectly.” 

“ You are mistaken, doctor, I have enjoyed perfect health,” 
replied Dunallan, hurriedly, and turning away, but instantly 
recovering himself, “ I am, indeed, delighted, and thankful to 
find Catharine look so well.” 

The doctor perceived he had touched on some unpleasant 
subject, and turning to Catharine, said, “I find, madam, that 
you saw poor old Elspeth this morning.” 

“ I did,” replied Catharine, blushing. 

“ She has at last got away,” said the doctor. 

“ Gone ? ” asked Catharine. 

“ Yes, madam. She lived only about an hour after you left 
her.” 

Catharine’s eyes filled wdth tears ; “ I did not think it would 
have been quite so soon ; were you with her at the last, 
doctor?” 

“I was, madam. Her last words were, ‘Tell my 'dear lady, 
that all is light now. I need no priest but the one everlasting 
High-Priest — my lady told me truth — she read me truth — 
my poor soul is safe — He will cast out none who come to 
Him — peace ! peace ! ’ she leaned back with an expression of 
such joy, I cannot desci’ibe it, and expired.” 

Catharine was much moved. 

“ Of whom do you speak ? ” asked Dunallan, with great 
interest. 

“ Of the old widow, to whom you, sir, gave the cottage on 
the edge of the lake.” 

“ Oh, I remember her. She was a Catholic.” 

“ Yes, and never would suffer me to speak to her on the sub- 
ject of religion,” replied the doctor, “till about a month ago. 
I do not know by what means Mrs. Dunallan overcame her 
ignorance and superstitious prejudices.” 


259 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 

V 

“I!” exclaimed Catharine, “I did nothing in the world but 
attempt to persuade' her to read the Bible. At first she would 
-not without the peritiission of her priest; but he was at such a 
'distance she could not 'go to him. I then began by repeating' 
parts of the Bible to her, and she was at last prevailed on to 
listen while I read it. ‘ She then became so eager to hear it, 
that she used to entreat her neighbors to read to her : and she 
learned its (Contents Svith wonderful quickness. Of late she has 
thought detith very near, and her former ideas regarding the 
necessity of having a priest ' to perfoian the ceremonies of her 
church, and prepare her for death, have made her at times very 
uneasy. I was so ignorant myself, that I knew not well how- 
to argue from the Bible against these superstitious notions, but 
I searched for such passages as I thought suited to convince 
her, that a man at that moment, could make no alteration on 
the real state of her soul ; that her priest’s prayers would be of 
no avail, unless she herself had a heart to pray^, and if she had 
she 'might be assured that God had bestowed it upon her, and 
would listen to her 'requests. I found many parts of Scripture 
"confirm this, and knew nothing better to say.” 

“Nothing better was required, you see,” 'said Dunallan, with 
much emotion. 

“ Ah ! Catharine, you have been so highly favored as to have 
been made the means of saving an immortal soul,” said Mrs. 
Oswald. 

“ Mrs. Dunallan has, indeed, been blessed with great success 
in all her endeavoi-s to do good,” said the doctor. “You will 
be surprised, sir, to see what effects all your plans have had 
under your lady’s care.” 

“ And still inore under yours, my good doctor,” said 
Catharine. 

“ Ah ! my dear fady,” replied the doctor, “ I have been here 
twenty years ; that answers for my part, for though I had seen 
some reform in the morals of my flock, I must now say, that 
the change has been greater since Mr. Dunallan and you, 
madam, came here, than during all the many years before.” 

“We must forget the past, doctor,” said Dunallan; “you' 


260 


DUNALLAN ; OR, 


know there were many causes formerly for your want of 
success. But, pray, tell me more about the people.” 

“ Well, sir, your library is doing immense good. Ever since 
your lady has attended in person when the books were given 
out, and in her irresistible way, has recommended particular ones 
to those who applied, it is astonishing how the people have 
improved.” 

“ But, Catharine, how in the world can you know what books 
are most proper for each applicant ? ” asked Dunallan, his counte- 
nance expressing the greatest pleasure while he looked for her 
answer. 

“ Indeed I do not know,” replied she, “ but Dr. Angus tells 
me the characters of the people and of the books, and I just 
recommend what 1 think will be most suitable, and they like this 
attention on my part, and read carefully what I recommend, 
because, I suppose, they think their doing so will please you.” 

Dunallan smiled. 

“ And then,” resumed the doctor, “ your lady’s and Mrs. Os- 
wald’s constant attendance at church, morning and evening, and 
their exemplary deportment during the service, have worked 
a wonderful change. Now everybody comes to churcli, and 
every one tries to listen ; and indeed, sir, the good effects of this 
follow me to my study, for it is discouraging to preach without 
being attended to. Now I feel it a delight to prepare instruc- 
tions for my attentive people. So much good can one family in 
an exalted situation do, who ai’e guided by the pure precepts of 
religion. Now it is really the desire of the people to receive 
information on that subject which is of more importance than 
all others ; and many, particularly among the young, begin to 
evmce the most earnest concern respecting their immortal 
interests.” 

Dunallan’s eyes glistened while the doctor continued to enu- 
merate the many improvements which had taken place during 
his absence, and when, after nearly two hours, the good man 
took his leave, he still continued to converse on the subject with 
Ml’S. Oswald and Catharine. Helen soon left the room. Mrs. 
Oswald then found some excuse for going, but her absence had 


KNOW AVHAT YOU JUDGE. 


^261 


not the effect she desired ; Dunallan became silent and embar- 
rassed, and , Catharine felt] his embarrassment infectious, i Dim- 
allan seemed, to perceive this,, and saying hurriedly, ‘^>1 do not 
attempt to thank you, Catharine, forvall your care of my peo- 
ple, but believe me, it is because. I{cannot ; ” he was.leaving»lhe 
.room, when Catharine said, , , 

“I entreat you, do not pain me ^by thinking, that what has 
been my, greatest^ pleasure can have been any trouble to me. 
INIay I ask you, never again to , mention your gratitude on this 
-subject?” - T -..(i ■ 

Punallan stopped. “Oh;! Catharine!” exclaimed he earnestly, 
“ I wish (I .could understand' you. Is it possible you can, 

even on such subjects as these, wish to.;: but pardon me, 

I had almost forgot my promise.” He then hastily quitted the 
room, leaving Catharine surprised, and alarmed by his .manner 
and inexplicable words : but all attempts to unravel his mean- 
ing, she found were vain. ' ; . 


- . . , . CHAPTER ^VII. v ‘ 

.. ' .i-v r I ' 

,, A WEEK passed away, and nothing occurred to lead to any 
explanation of Dunallan’s conduct : he .seemed, however, to 
become less unhappy every day, and his warmly expressed 
approbation of- all Catharine had done- in > his absence — his 
gratitude — his gentle attentions, and ever pleasing conversation, 
gave a new interest to. her existence. His frequent appearance 
of melancholy still, however, gave her. continual uneasiness, 
while his evident suspicion, at times, lOf her sincerity, led her to 
fear she had in some way injured herself in his opinion ; and, 
kind and attentive and gentle as he ever was, there was yet a 
something in his manner which deterred her from asking any 
explanation ; or, indeed, from ever being quite at ease with him. 
I>unallan,.too, did not . now seek her society, but, on the con- 
trary, seemed' carefully to avoid being left alone with her. 

One evening, on receiving his letters, Catharine observed, that,’ 


262 


DUNALLAN; OR, 


-after reading one, 'Dunallan became extremely pale ; he looked 
anxiously at her, but she instantly' turned away her eyes, and 
felt grieved that he should know she had seen his emotion. 
-During that evening he was even more than usually gentle and 
"attentive imhis manner to lier. ' The idea that Dunallan had, 
during his absence, met with some amiable ' being to whom he 
had involuntarily given his affections, had long and frequently 
presented itself to Catharine’s mind ; but the idea was so painful, 
she had the more easUy succeeded^ in fulfilling -what she consid- 
ered a duty, by banishing as much as she possibly could, every 
thought that led to the subject. Dunallan’s letter of this night, 
however, she could not help believing was connected -with this 
painful idea, and this thought rendered his attentions less 
pleaising. 

• Next morning his manner was even more soothingly gentle 
■than the evening before ; but the same ideas still possessed her 
mind. She admired Dunallan’s attempt, as she thought, to be 
kind to his poor unloved wife, but each new and gentle attention 
increased her sadness, and as soon as breakfast was over she 
rose to leave the room. She went to a window as she passed. 
The snow had again fallen as deep- as ever, and she felt uncer- 
tain whether she should on that day visit her school, which she 
had done less 1 frequently since Dunallan’s return. She was 
surprised on observing the road in the avenue opened for a 
carriage. 

“ Who is going out in a 'carriage ? ” asked she ; but it instantly 
struck her that Dunallan was again about to leave Arnmore. 
She felt a sickness come over her heart, but turned avmy, for 
Dunallan had followed her to the window. « 

“I received a letter last night, Catharine, which .” 

Tie stopped. . .r ' < ' 

“Which must take you from home, Mr. Dunallan,” said 
Catharine, in a cold but hurried tone of voice. 

“Not me, Catharine,” said Dunallan. > : • 

■- “ Who then ? ” asked Catharine, turning round as she spoke. 

He looked much distressed, “ My letter was from Dunallan 
Castle.” ■ .- V : 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


263 


And my father is ill : Oh ! Mr. Dunallan, how could you 
conceal this from me ! My father ! my dear father ! ” 

“ Be composed, dearest Catharine, I have only attempted to 
save you from unnecessary pain. You could not have travelled 
till the road was opened.” 

“ Forgive me, Mr. Dunallan ; you are always kind; but now 
you will allow me to go to him.” She burst into tears. 

“ All is ready for your departure, dearest Catharine.” 

“ But is my father very ill I ” 

Dunallan gave her a letter from Elizabeth. 

must be alone when I read this,” said she, turning to go. 

She trembled excessively. Dunallan supported her to the 
door of her apartment. She there found Martin making prepa- 
rations for her journey, and Mrs;. Oswald herself assisting her. 
‘‘ Ah ! my dear, kind Mrs. Oswald, that is too, too much ! ” 

Mrs. Oswald pressed her to her heart. “ Do not think of me, 
my love ; think only at present of the mercy and kindness of 
your Heavenly Father to those who put their trust in Him, and 
place all your confidence in his promised care and presence.” 

Catharine could not speak, but, hastening into her dressing- 
room, threw herself upon her knees, and in that posture, opened 
Elizabeth’s letter. 

“ I have delayed as long as I think I ought, to give you the 
pain, my own Catharine, which I now fear I must. Your dear 
father was taken ill about a fortnight ago. He did not wish any 
one to be informed of it, or to come to him at this severe season ; 
but I learned it from his physician, who had been sent for from 
Edinburgh, and who considered it proper to acquaint me with 
his illness. My mother is too delicate to think of travelling at 
this season of the year, much as she wished it. I therefore 
came here immediately. I found my dear uncle looking very 
ill, though not suffering much. He has become gradually worse 
since my arrival, and though he has positively forbidden my ac- 
quainting you with his illness, I dare no longer conceal it from 
you. He is constantly talking of his beloved child, but. says he 
would not for the world you knew that he was ill, for he knows 
you would attempt to come to him, and that the roads near Arn- 


264 


DUNALLAN ; OR, 


more must at present be entirely shut up. He often expresses 
a wish to see Mr. Dunallan, who, he supposes is now at Arri- 
more, but seems to think Mr. Dunallan regards him with so 
much dislike, that he would not willingly come to him.” 

Catharine hurried over the remaining part of Elizabeth’s let- 
ter ; only one idea was now present to her mind, — her father’s 
life was in danger ! She prayed earnestly for his recovery ; 
she prayed for strength and composure of mind for herself, that 
she might be enabled to attend him, whatever should be the 
event, without disturbing him by her emotions. She ardently 
desired that Dunallan would agree to her father’s wish, and go 
to him ; but she shrunk from the idea of making the request, 
as she well knew with what coldness, at least, he regarded Lord 
Dunallan. Her father’s danger, however, and the recollection 
of his utter neglect of all that was necessary to prepare his 
soul for its eternal state, almost overpowered her, and soon 
overcoming every other feeling, she determined, at least, to 
induce Dunallan to accompany her to her father’s sick room. 

“ All is ready, my love,” said Mrs. Oswald, as Catharine hur- 
riedly passed her. Catharine did not stay to reply, but pro- 
ceeded towards the breakfast room. Dunallan, however, was 
in the liall, and seemed prepared to go out. He was himself 
giving directions to the servants, who were putting things into 
the carriage, which was to carry Catharine away. “ Ah ! ” 
thought she, “ he is going out to ride as usual, and only waits 
till I am gone.” Her heart sunk, but again recollecting lier 
father, she almost in despair, approached him. 

“Will you allow me to speak with you in private, Mr. Dun- 
allan, for one moment ? ” 

Dunallan started on hearing her voice, and immediately ac- 
companied her to the nearest apartment. 

“ You will think I encroach on your goodness, Mr. Dunallan, 
but at this moment I cannot, I ought not to think of any one 
but my father ; you know his danger ; you know, Mr. Dunallan, 
how little he regarded, how little he attempted to prepare' — ” 
Catharine became breathless, and stopped. 

“ My dearest Cathanne what do you wish ? Do not recall 
such remembrances.” 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


2G-5 


“.Oh ! I cannot banish them :; but it is not yet too’ late. My 
father wishes to see you; Mr. Dunallan — could you overcome 
your former feelings for him — could you forgive him all the 
misery he has cost you, and agree.io his wish ; how irresistibly 
would such goodness convince him of the power and perfection 
of your principles ! ” 

“ Most assuredly, Catharine, I will go to him if he wishes it ; 
I have nothing to forgive ; I only wanted your permission to 
accompany you, but dreaded asking it, lest at such a moment my 
presence should only have annoyed you. May I now hope you 
will suffer me to acconipany you ? ” 

Catharine’s eyes filled with tears. “ How generously you 
always ” she could say no more, tears choked her utter- 

ance, and she hurried away. 

Li-a few minutes Catharine and Dunallan were on their road 
to Dunallan Castle. Catharine felt the support Dunallan’s 
presence gave her. She felt her hopes reviving, because he 
spoke as if he believed Lord Dunallan might yet recover. All 
his coldness of manner, too, was now gone. lie seemed pain- 
fully uneasy lest she should suffer from the severity of the 
weather. He had completely wrapped her in a large fur pe- 
lisse, and soon threw another to the bottom of the carriage, to 
save her still more perfectly from the cliill air ; yet still seemed 

unsatisfied. i 

0 

“ I am quite wami and comfortable, Mr. Dunallan,” said 
Catharine, smiling sweetly. “ Permit me to attend to your 
health now ; this pelisse is far too beautiful to be trodden upon.” 
She would have presented it to him, but he put it gently away. 

“ I am accustomed to cold, Catharine,” said he, smiling sadly ; 
“ I rather long for its bracing power. I wish it could penetrate 
to my soul, and renovate its strength also.” 

Catharine looked surprised, Dunallan spoke with an expres- 
sion so unlike his usual self-command. He turned away, and 
for some moments continued silent. 

The country through which they passed was one immense 
and continued 'waste of untrodden snow. The day was dark 
and gloomy; not a breath of wind stirred the trees, as they 

23 


266 


DUNALLAN; OR, 


Stood bearing, to their smallest branches, their cold, soft load 
of sno'w. iDunallan, however, soon began to converse with 
his usual power of exciting interest ; and heavy, and appre- 
hensive for the future, as Catharine’s heart was, she felt sur- 
prised when the short day closed in. The road had been 
cleared wherever it was necessary, and fresh horses were 
ready at every stage. Dunallaii had not proposed her stop- 
ping for a moment on the road, so that, at an early hoUr in the 
evening, Catharine perceived that they were approaching Dun- 
allan Castle. Her apprehensions again returned with over- 
powering force. ■ She entreated Dunallan to. stop the carriage 
at one of the cottages in the road. “ They will all know how 
he is,” said she. 

Dunallan immediately stopped the carriage, but told 
Catharine he had' sent forward a servant Avhom they would 
soon meet. At this moment the man rode up to the car- 
riage. 

“ My lord is better to-day, sir,” said he, in answer to Dun- 
allan’s inquiries. 

“ Thank God ! ” exclaimed Catharine, bursting into tears. 

“ Thank God ! ” repeated Dunallan, energetically. 

Catharine was now all impatience to embrace her father. 
“ Should tliis illness be the means of leading my father to 
attend to religion,” said she, thoughtfully, “ I ^hall not regret it. 
Perhaps it is thus that God has been pleased to answer ray 
prayers for him. But wliat am I, that God should listen to my 
poor, unworlliy prayers ^ Tell me, Mr. Dunalhm, do you tliink 
it presuniirtion or enthusiasm to suppose that God does any 
thing in consequence of our prayers?” 

“ No, Catharine, I think it presumptuous in the last degree, to 
dare to disbelieve what God himself has declared to be the case ; 
and he has said, that he is ‘ the hearer of prayer,’ and that ‘ the 
prayer of the righteous availeth much.’ ” 

, “Ah, yes! but not such prayers as mine; from a heart so 

apt to wander from him — so evil — so occupied witli trifles 

so altogether unworthy ; fi-om a mind so ignorant and dark, lhat 
I can only at intervals form such ideas of liim ae to excite that 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


267 


love he demands,. and feel in general only that dread 06 offending 
him which makes me tremble.. Prayers from a mind in such a 
state cannot be acceptable.” ^ 1 ' 

“ Pardon me, dear Catharine, I think, on the contrary, that, 
in your account of yourself, I see the very character which our 
heavenly Father has declared he will regard, ‘ to this man .will 
I look, even to him that is poor, and of a contrite spirit, and 
that trembleth at my word.’ ” . , . • . 

Catharine .melted into tears, Ah,' thank you, thank you, a 
thousand times, for these precious words ! I shall not soon for- 
get them. How sweetly comforting they are ! ” 

' If you indeed wish not to forget them, Catharine,” replied! 
Dunallan, with extreme gentleness, “ and to feel that comfort 
they are graciously intended to bestow, thank Him whose 
words they are, and who alone 'can enlighten the mind'.”. 

Catharine remained silent; she was touched by Dunallan’s 
words, and by his gentle, yet earnest, manner. 

Do not be displeased with me, Catharine,” resumed he;t 
“believe me, that, in thus venturing to risk offending you, on ^ 
all occasions where your first and best interests are concerned, 
I prefer your real happiness to my own 2^resent comfort at 
least.” ■ ^ ■ . 

“ Displease me ! ” repeated Catharine 1; “ I wish you saw my 
heart, Mr. Dunallan.” ' i . 

“ Do you, Catharine ? ” asked Dunallan, in an incredulous 
tone of voice. 

“ At this moment, Mr. Dunallan, I do.” j 

Dunallan was silent ; and in a few minutes they entered the 
grounds of Dunallan Castle. The moon was obscured by! 
clouds, but still its light, joined do the brightness of the snow, 
enabled Catharine to trace the well-known scenery around her, 
while her feelings became flurried and confused by the various 
ideas which now crowded into her mind. The dreariness of 
the wide expanse of snow — the melancholy occasion of her 
return to her early home — Dunallan’s presence, which ever 
excited a deep, and now a jjainful interest, from his unaccount- 
able conduct, contrasted with his irresistibly gentle and pleasing 


268 


DUX ALL AN ; OR, 


manners and conversation — her approaching meeting with her 
father — the pleasing hope of again seeing Elizabeth — all 
struggled for the first place in her thoughts, and by turns occu- 
pied it. At dast the carriage stopped. Dunallan threw open 
the door on his side, and in a moment stood ready to assist 
Catharine’s trembling attempts to hasten to Elizabeth, who 
stood within the great door of the hall to receive her. Dunallan 
almost carried her into the house. 

My own Elizabeth ! ” “ My beloved Catharine 1 ” exclaimed 
the friends, ardently embracing. 

‘‘My kindest, dearest^ Elizabeth ! ” said Catharine, when they 
had reached the apartment to which Elizabeth led the way, 
“you have been my father’s successful nurse, and he is 
better.” 

“ Yes, dearest Catharine, this day he has been less uneasy, I 
think.” - >i 

“ Less uneasy ! ” repeated Catharine, “ is that all ? ” She at- 
tempted in vain to ^be calm, and burst into tears. Elizabeth 
attempted to soothe her, but in vain. 

“ Does he know I am coming, Elizabeth. May I see him 
now?” 

“ He knows you are coming, my dearest Catharine, and you 
will relieve him from his anxiety about you by seeing him im- 
mediately ; but, my Catharine, you must, for his sake, be com- 
posed ; you will find him altered in appearance.” 

Catharine started and shuddered. 

“ A very slight and ' short illness greatly alters the appear- 
ance at times, dearest Catharine,” said Dunallan; “you must 
be prepared to expect this, but do not be .alarmed ; ” then speak- 
ing in a lower tone of voice, “ remember in whose merciful and 
compassionate hands his, and all our lives are, and trust all your 
anxieties and fears to him.” 

Catharine instantly became composed. She turned to Eliza- 
beth, “ I am composed,! Elizabeth ; take me to my father.” She 
then left the room, internally imploring that support to which. 
Dunallan had turned her thoughts. , 

■It was more than an hour before Catharine again joined Dun-,. 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


269 


allan ; and, though her eyes showed traces of the tender nature 
of her meeting with her father, her countenance had resumed, 
in some degree, its usual happy and lively expression. 

“ My father is not so ill as I feared,” exclaimed she, on enter- 
ing the room, ‘‘ I am sure he is not.” 

Dunallan’s countenance instantly reflected the pleasure that 
glowed in hers. “ He has trusted to me to express his gratitude 
to you, Mr. Dunallan,” continued Catharine, “ for thus kindly 
indulging his wishes. He is anxious to see you, but is too much 
exhausted now. ' In the morning he hopes for that pleasure. 
And now,' how shall I express both his gratitude and my own ? ” 
added she. 

“ By never mentioning the word to me, Catharine,” replied 
Dunallan ; “ for, whenever you do, I feel as if you meant to 
remind me how painful it is to be in the slightest degree obliged 
by one, who has cost you so much unhappiness.” 

‘‘ Unhappiness ! ” repeated Catharine ; but Elizabeth’s entrance 
prevented her expressing the feelings Dunallan’s words and 
manner had inspired ; and, on reflection, she was glad she had 
been interrupted ; for, kind and anxious as his manner during 
this day had been, he had said nothing to do away her fears 
that some cause existed which led him to wish rather to avoid 
than to seek to excite her affection for him. She soon returned 
to her father’s apartment, and remained with him as long as his 
anxiety for her would suffer her to stay. She then lingered next 
the door of his room, till she heard all silent and quiet within ; 
and, after praying for every blessing to rest iq)on him, she re- 
tired for the night. 

Catharine ordered Martin to call her at an early hour next 
morning ; but for once Martin was disobedient ; and fatigue so 
far overcame her anxiety, that the late sun was completely risen 
when she awoke. She started from her pillow, and, dressing 
as hastily as she could, went immediately to the door of her 
father’s apartment. His servant was in the ante-room. She 
inquired if her father was awake, and was informed that Mr. 
Dunallan had been with him for the last hour. Catharine 
rejoiced at this interview, and, determining not to interrupt \t, 

23 * 


270 


dunallan; or, 


was turning to go in quest of Elizabeth, when the ;doori of her- 
father’s apartment was softly opened, and Dunallan himself ap-> 
peared. ■< vr >: :>il 

“ How kind is this ! ” said she to him, her eyes filling as she 
spoke. Dunallan’s own bore traces of recent softness. He in- 
quired tenderly for Catharine’s health. ' ^ 1 ’, 

“ Quite, quite well. May I now go to my 'father, or shall I > 
disturb him?” ■ - ' r 

‘‘ No, Catharine, you cannot disturb him : he says your pres- 
ence has restored to him all that he really values on earth.” 

“ My dear father ! ” said Catharine, tenderly, and turning 
hastily away to go to him. 

He received her with eager fondness.' After a -few minutes 
he began to talk of Dunallan. 

“ I had formed a most erroneous opinion both of him and of 
his religious sentiments. Catharine,” said he, “ he is the most 
feeling man I ever saw ; and, instead of being, severe and con- 
temptuous, as I supposed his singular opinions led him to be, 
he has the humblest heart of any man I ever c'onversed with.” 

Catharine could not refrain from tears while her father con- 
tinued thus to praise Dunallan. 

“ My dear father,” said she, you had indeed formed most 
erroneous notions of Mr. Dunallan. I, too, had suffered myself 
to be so prejudiced against him that I look back still with shame 
and gi'ief to the time he formerly spent under your roof. Now, 

1 hope we both know how to value him.” . 


CHAPTER XV-IIL ' 

. ^ - r ^ 

For the first fortnight Catharine scarcely ever left her father’s 
room. He seemed revived by the presence of his beloved child, 
and to grudge losing sight of her for a moment. Dunallan’s' 
society soon also became almost as necessary to him as Catha- 
rine’s. He constantly desired to have them both near him. 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


271 


Catharine was now, therefore, constantly seeing Dunallan, and 
in such circumstances as to do away every feeling, but that of 
gratitude. His gentleness to her father — his affectionate kind- 
ness, and feeling attentions, increased in proportion as Lord 
Dunallan’s esteem and affection increased for him. His manner 
to herself — mild, gentle, and polite, but again reserved, made 
her very unhappy ; yet she could not at times help thinking, that 
his coldness was in some degree assumed. Often, while em- 
ployed in those tender cares which her i father’s situation 
required, she met Dunallan’s eyes fixed upon her with looks of 
interest and admiration ; but in vain did she attempt to con- 
jecture what could be the cause of his coldness, real or assumed. 
Pie was ever on the watch, also, lest she should suffer from 
fatigue, and to bear it for her. One evening. Lord Dunallan 
had fallen asleep, Avhile Catharine, who stood behind his chair, 
supported his head on her bosom. Lord Dunallan’s complaint 
prevented his sleeping but in a sitting posture ; he now seemed 
to find his attitude an easy one, for his sleep was unusually calm 
and tranquil. Catharine became pale from fatigue, but refused 
to resign her place to Dunallan. 

“ I would not disturb him for the world,” whispered she to 
him, when he in the same tone of voice entreated her to resign 
her charge to him. 

He 'stood near her in evident uneasiness. 

“ You will kill yourself, Catharine ; I entreat you, suffer me. 
I shall not disturb your patient.” 

*• No, no, do not ask me. I am not fatigued.” 

Dunallan remained near her, apparently miserable, till Lord 
Dunallan’ awoke ; and after that evening, watched with such 
care, that he was always ready to support Lord Dunallan’s 
drooping head, when it appeared that he was weary of his 
usual supports. ' ' 

A thousand similar • attentions performed with the utmost 
gentleness and feeling, while, at the same time, an expression of 
deep sadness clouded his own countenance and manner, excited 
feelings of gratitude and interest in Catharine which she could 
not repress, and which daily increased. ■' , 


272 


DUNALLAN; OR, 


Dunallan also frequently conversed with Lord Dunallan on 
the subject of religion, which was the only one in which he now 
took any continued interest : and Catharine listened, with de- 
lighted attention, to his animated and feeling, and convincing 
replies to the cavilling arguments of her father. Dunallan 
went patiently over and over the same ground, giving a playful 
turn to the peevishness of sickness, and with persevering 
earnestness, placing his subject in every varied point of 
view. His society became each moment more necessary to 
Lord Dunallan. Catharine, too, was now so constantly with her 
father, that Elizabeth, who found herself of no real use, at last 
consented to her entreaties to return to Mr. Melville, whose 
patience at her absence seemed wholly exhausted. 

Catharine, however, almost regretted having suffered her 
friend to go, when, on the first day after her departure, she 
found herself alone with Dunallan. It was after dinner, and 
the servants had left the room. This was the only hour in the 
day in which Lord Dunallan chose to be left alone, so Catharine 
had no excuse for (putting Dunallan. He now himself appeared 
embarrassed, and, for once, at a loss for conversation. Catha- 
rine first broke silence. 

“ Do you think my father recovers at all, Mr. Dunallan ? ” 

He hesitated, “What is your opinion, Catharine?” , 

“ I cannot say that I think he does ; but I am so apprehen- 
sive — perhaps you see differently.” 

Dunallan seemed unwilling to answer her question. 

“ I am prepared to hear any opinion, Mr. Dunallan.” 

“ Your father himself has little hope of recovery, Catharine'. 
Whatever is the event I think we ought to feel thankful for this, 
as it has the best of all effects. At your father’s age, few 
pleasures remain for us in .this world. Ought we, Catharine, 
to wish, for our own sakes, to keep those we love here, when 
those years are come in which they say, ‘ I have no pleasure in 
them ? ’ ” 

“ Oh, no,” replied Catharine ; “ if my father thought and 
felt on all subjects as you do, Mr. Dunallan, I could forget my 
own wisla^s ; but” — she stopped and sighed heavily. 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGK. 


273 


“ Your father, Catharine, when I was last here, was an 
avowed infidel. He now wishes to find that the Christian reli- 
gion is true. If you remember what I wrote you were my own 
sentiments at one time of my life, you will feel that, of all men', 
I ought least to lose hope of others. He who taught me to 
differ, can in a moment impart to another a greater portion of 
that light which I have unworthily received.” 

Catharine was moved, for Dunallan spoke as if he deeply 
felt wdiat he expressed. “ You know always how to impart 
comfort at least, Mr. Dunallan,” replied she, with emotion ; 
“ and now that I have an opportunity, suffer me to express the 
gratitude which I confess almost oppresses me, for all your un- 
wearied kindness to my father— your patience — your constant 
goodness.” Her eyes filled .with tears, and she rose and turned 
away to conceal them. 

Dunallan followed her. “ Gratitude again, Catharine ! why do 
you still use that expression to me ? When we parted, before 
1 went abroad, you allowed me to call myself your friend. 
You yourself invited me to assume the privileges of friendship. 
You allowed me to hope that you were pleased with my feeling 
the affection of a friend for you. I have never claimed more, 
yet you have treated me as a stranger, or rather as an exacting, 
unreasonable being, whom you dread to offend ; for whose 
acts of common kindness you must feel an oppressive sense 
of gratitude. What have I done to give you cause for all this, 
Catharine ? ” 

Catharine was so astonished by this address as to be quite 
unable to answer a word.” 

“ I detest all concealments,” resumed Dunallan. “ On my 
part there shall be none ; and I will now acknowledge, that 
letters, at least some of them, during my absence, I now regret 
having written. I do not ask you to remember the cause — the 
style of your letters — nothing should have made me for an 
instant forget how I ought to have acted towards you. Forgive 
me, Catharine, for having been led, even by you, into feelings 
of resentment, which, towards you, could only last till I again 
had an opportunity of s(?eing and feeling the perfect simpliclt5'. 


274 


dunallan; or, 


the ingenuous openness of your character; the certainty, that 
when you were in* error, it was the ; consequence of cruel 
delusion and self-deception ; hut I go too far ; all I wish to say 
is, that I still feel for you all the friendship I did when we 
parted. Can you, Catharine, no longer regard me as you then 
did?” . 

“ I can, Mr. Dunallan,” answered Catharine, holding out her 
hand to him, ‘‘ but I, too, hate all concealments : surely it was 
not I who first — do I quite understand you?” She blushed, 
and proceeded hesitatingly, “ Was I deceived, did I deceive my- 
self in thinking your letters were strangely changed in style 
before mine were ? ” ■ 

Dunallan shook his head. “ Ah, Catharine,” replied he, “ do 
not attempt to say more ; it will not succeed. I ask not for 
your confidence any farther till you choose to give it me. 
Let us say no more of the past. We shall only remember, 
that all is again between us as it was when we parted at 
Arnmore.” 

Catharine felt pleased but unsatisfied, and turned confusedly 
away from Dunallan’s inquiring looks. 

“ Think no more now of what is past, dearest Catharine,” 
said he, gently. “If at any future time you should ‘feel dis- 
posed to treat me with more confidence, do not suffer yourself 
to be prevented by a consciousness of having erred, but re- 
member how, I attempted to win your confidence; and that 
though, for your own sake, I can never assist you to palliate 
any error, yet you know how trivial I must consider yours com- 
pared to my own. Forgive me, since 1 have ventured thus far, 
if, for once, I allude to another subject. You know, Catharine, 
that as a husband I deserve most deeply to suffer. In so far 
as I could do so alone, I should wish to bend in humble sub- 
mission to a retribution I feel to be so just; but in some points 
it is impossible for me ultimately to suffer alone : and now for- 
give me dearest Catharine, for having been thus open with you, 
and let me no longer detain you from your father.” 

Dunallan seemed as if he wished to relieve Catharine from 
supposing herself obliged to give him any answer, and slic wu:; 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


275 


so' utterly at a loss to comprehend what his last words meant, 
that she suffered him to lead her to her father’s apartment, witlj 
out attempting to say one word. 

Lord Dunallan’s emaciated countenance brightened with 
pleasure as they entered. “My Catharine,” said he, “how 
that smile of yours chases away all my gloomy thoughts.” 

“ Why were your thoughts gloomy, my dearest father ? ” 

“ Because the grave is a gloomy subject of thought, Catha- 
rine. But I will not banish the roses from your cheek by my 
gloom. Dunallan, we must 'find some amusement for my child 
here, since she will not seek it elsewhere.” '' 

“ No, no, my dear father,” said Catharine, with assumed 
cheerfulness, “ it is your amusement we shall seek.!’ ^ 

Lord Dunallan shook his head, with an expression of the, 
most hopeless despondency. 

“ Perhaps, my dear lord,” said Dunallan, “ Catharine may 
know some charm to take away the gloom, even from the 
subject you mentioned.” 

“ Oh, no, Dunallan ! to shut my eyes for ever on that sweet 
face, is the darkest ingredient of the gloom.” 

“ But it is not forever, my dearest father. It may be but a 
short separation, even should you go before your child.” 

“ Ah ! my Catharine, it is easy with your youth and health 
to talk of death and the grave ; but, my cliild, when those roses 
are withered, and those luxuriant locks are thiiioand gray, and 
the grave seems near, and another state of existence really 
approaching, then, my child, a film seems to fall from the eyes ; 
all that we valued before appears in its true insignificance ; the 
vain trappings of a past day ; and the state of the immortal 
spirit, that which before could scarcely fix a thought, then seems 
of an importance so vast, that the short time failing nature tells 
us we have to attend to it, seems' so imidequate, that we shrink 
in despair from the task. I have often, my Catharine, repented 
of having consulted your inclination so little in the choice of 
your husband. I still blame myself for this ; but heaven has 
rewarded your obedience to an unreasonable father, by giving 
you a friend and protector, who will, before it is too laU^ le>.? 


276 


DUNALLAN ; OK, 


you into the knowledge of those important truths your father 
never taught you.” 

Catharine could not restrain her tears while her father spoke , 
thus despondingly and tenderly. She was seated close by him, 
and in silence pressed the hand she held to her heart. Dunallan 
had stood near them. He now sat down on the other side of 
Lord Dunallan, who immediately held out his hand to him. 

My dear Dunallan, this is sad, melancholy work for you, to 
watch a wretched old mtin, dying in the blue devils.” 

“ I do not consider dying such a melancholy work as you seem 
to do, my lord,” replied Dunallan, in a cheerful, though serious 
tone of voice.' “I have seen people die who would not have 
wished to live, had it been in their power ; young people, too, 
who had ‘met with nothing to teach them the insignificance which 
your lordshi]) has just said characterizes every pursuit, when 
viewed from the entrance into another state.” 

“ I can easily conceive that of young people,” replied Lord 
Dunallan. “ They still believe the creed their mothers taught 
them ; and conscious of innocence, they look with certainty to 
those scenes of felicity they have been led to believe awaits 
them ill an immortal state. But after having entertained infidel 
principles, and having run the course of — Oh ! Dunallan, you 
do not know what a life I have led — I ” 

“ I know, my lord,” interrupted Dunallan, “ that in the eyes 
of tlie world your character has been as fair, or more so, than 
that of most other men,’ and therefore must regard your 
present view of it as a proof that the light of divine truth is 
rising on your mind, by ivliich alone we can see what is requisite 
to satisfy the laws of 'God. You know, my lord, that it is ray 
firm belief, no human being can be justified by his own merits 
in the sight of his Creator.” 

“ But you always return to that canting mystery,” replied 
Lord Dunallan, peevishly, “ who can comprehend your meaning 
when you talk of imputing the merits of another to rational and 
accountable creatures ? ” 

“I do return to that mystery, my lord, because I know 
of nothing else to turn to,” replied Dunallan, mildly. “ You say. 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


277 


my lord, that death is alaiming to you, because you feel appre- 
hensive that your life has not been so spent as to be found worthy 
at the great reckoning. I say that 1 believe no man’s has been 
so spent; and that we are lost forever, unless at that day we 
have other grounds to rest our hopes of heaven upon, than our 
imperfect obedience, — I may say, our continued disobedience 
to the laws of God.” 

Lord Dunallan continued for some time silent, and in deep 
thought, then said, “ I have not been worse than other men. 
For many years I have lived free from every vice ; in youth, to 
be sure ; but few men can restrain their passions in youth : the 
Being who created us witli those passions will excuse their 
excess. He is good and merciful.” 

Dunallan sighed deeply, “ And would you rather, my lord, 
trust that the Divine Being who has said, ‘ that no unbeliever, 
no impure person, shall enter into the kingdom of heaven;’ 
Avould you rather tmst to an idea for which there is no ground 
in Scripture, that his pity will lead him to break his word, than 
receive the forgiveness of your sins, and admission into heaven 
on his own terms ? ” 

“ And what are those terms ? ” 

Catharine looked at Dunallan with admiring gratitude, when 
he began again, for perhaps the hundredth time, to answer this 
question. He did so, with the utmost gentleness of voice and 
manner. 

“ The terms revealed to us in Scripture, my lord, are ex 
tremely simple, and, I think, completely suited to the state of 
your feelings. They are mei-ely these ■ — ‘ Believe on the Lord 
Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.’ You have said, my 
lord, that you cannot believe. This state of mind is also anti- 
cipated in Scri])ture and we are told that ‘ Faith is the gift of 
God ; ’ and again, ‘ That we must ask, and we shall receive. 
That God will not despise the humble and contrite heart. That 
He is the hearer of prayer.’ ” 

“ Dunallan, I cannot pray.” 

“ Could you listen to the prayers of another, my lordK” ^ 
24 


278 


dunallan; or, 


“ Of a clergyman ? certainly not — the whole neighborhood 
would hear of it.” 

“Not a clergyman’s then, my lord, but your son’s.” 

“ Yours, Dunallan ? ” He seemed affected. Dunallan looked 
at rCatharine. She smiled through the tears that had filled her 
eyes on Dunallan’s proposal, and immediately knelt down by 
her father. He laid his hand tenderly on her head for a mo- 
ment, then covered his face, while Dunallan poured out his soul 
in fervent prayer to his Creator. He seemed to feel the exact 
state of Lord Dunallan’s mind, and entered into his dark and 
confused conceptions of religion, and suited his ardent and 
humble requests so completely to the wants of the immortal 
spirit, when ignorant and apprehensive, it trembles on the brink 
of eternity, that Lord .Dunallan’s enfeebled frame was scarcely 
able, while he listened, to support the emotions of his 
soul. 

“ Leave me,” said he, when Dunallan rose from his knees, 
“ leave me, my Catharine, leave me alone, dear excellent Dun- 
allan.^ 

Catharine hesitated on seeing the perturbed expression of 
his countenance, but Dunallan took her hand, and gently drcAV 
her away. 

“ My dear Catharine,” said he, when they reached another 
apartment, “ there are some feelings which cannot brook ob- 
servation.” 

Catharine .remainexl silent, and continued leaning on Dunal- 
lan’s arm, slowly to pace about, tlie room. He too remained 
silent, and deeply thoughtful. “ What an astonishing change 
the approach of death makes, on every feeling^ and power of 
the soul!” said he at last. “How vividly it shows the true 
nature and value of things ! ” 

, “ Yes,” replied Catharine, “ I could wish its approach should 
always seem near for that cause. But Mr. Dunallan, do you 
think the dread of its approach has the same effect on every 
mind?” 

“ No, my dear Catharine, I too well know that it has not,” 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


279 


replied Dunallan, sighing, or rather, almost groaning, as he 
spoke. “1‘v.have seen the approach of death have no other 
effect than that of increasing the desire of accomplishing earthly 
schemes ; and the immortal spirit depart, satisfied with this, as 
if it had performed all its part. But what an awakening would 
be there ! ” Dunallan shuddered and clasped his hands together 
with alarming energy. 

“ Ah ! ” said Catharine, “if people only knew the rest the mind 
feels when it has discovered, even imperfectly, the end of its 
existence ! ” 

“ Yes, Catharine, but ’mankind will not believe this, though 
assured of it by the Avisest and the best. The ear will not,' 
cannot hear, till it is unstopped — the eye cannot see — the hearf 
cannot receive, till they are touched by a power from heaven. 
How intense is their blindness, Avho see something to interest in 
every object and every inquiry under the sun, but in that which 
relates to the future existence of the soul ; and Avho yet boldly 
avow, that they discoA^er proofs of immortality in their oAvn 
minds — Avho will spend an existence in exploring into the 
minutest, and least valuable of the Avorks of God, and be es- 
teemed Avise, while they turn Avith apathy from a Revelation 
which discloses to them the terms on Avhich depends the happi- 
ness or misery of their immortal spirits during eternity. But, 
my dear Catharine, is it- from your own experience, may I ask, 
that you have learned to value so highly that rest of the mind 
Avhich you described ? ” * 

“ Yes,” replied Catharine, blushing ; “ but I only know AAdiat 
it is. I. do not yet possess it always; but knoAving Avhat it is,' 
and where it is to be found, prevents at least the possibility of 
believing, that the immortal part can be satisfied Avith Avhat is 
not, like itself, immortal. But, indeed, Mr. Dunallan, we must 
now return to my father.” 

“ Do you fear that I shall ask you more questions about your- 
self, Catharine?” 

]Sfo — yes — I do not knoAV Avhy I should not like to answer 
you on this subject — but ” 

“ It is perfectly natural, my dear Catharine ; but do not fear 


280 


DUNALLAN ; OR, 


that I shall annoy you by my anxiety to know the real state of 
your religious feelmgs and opinions — they cannot be concealed, 
Catharine — yet when you can, if ever that time shall come, 
trust me with this most precious part of your sentiments, you 
will find me very grateful.” They had now reached the door 
of Lord Dunallan’s apartment. Catharine stopped and said, “ I 
shall attempt to overcome my reserve, for my own sake, if you 
will promise to correct my errors.” 

“ I promise to tell you frankly my opinion at least,” replied 
Dunallan. They then entered Lord Dunallan’s apartment. 
He was sitting with his head leaning on his hand. He raised it 
on their entrance, and smiling more ' placidly than Catharine 
had observed him do since her return, “ Come, my dear young 
instructors,” said he, “ I now like your lessons. Dunallan, how 
shall I thank you for your patience with your old and stubborn 
pupil ? — But, Catharine, my child — Dunallan — I feel very 
faint, assist me to the sofa.” 

Catharine and Dunallan assisted him, and laid him gently as 
he wished, and Catharine held a cordial to his lips. He smiled 
as he received it from her ; but some internal failure of nature 
checked his smile, and for an instant brought a livid paleness, 
and an expression of sudden and startling alarm over his coun- 
tenance. But this was soon past, and- he raised his eyes to 
Heaven, full of such deep humility, and lowly tenderness of 
spirit, as almost to change the cast of his usually proud and 
stern features. Catharine looked at Dunallan ; she saw he was 
alarmed. He left the room, and returned immediately with the. 
medical gentleman, w'ho was in constant .attendance. Lord 
Dunallan had been subject to these faintish attacks during the 
whole of his illness, but now he seemed more than usually 
gone. The doctor felt his pulse. 

“ Mr. Crawford, you are too late,” said Lord Dunallan, faint- 
ly — “I am gone.” 

Mr. Crawford prescribed a restorative. 

‘‘ You have been right, Crawford,” said his lordship — “ you 
told me the truth — I thank you — fare you well — leave me 
now — I wish to say sometliing to my daughter.” 

( Vawford left the room. 


KNOW WIIAT YOU JUDGE. 


281 


Lord Dunallan looked at Catharine, who hung over him, in 
speechless terror. “ My child, I was prepared for this ; Craw- 
ford did not think I should have survived so long, but God has 

mercifully spared me until He stopped again, becoming 

very faint — attempted to speak, but suddenly starting, fell back 
into Dunallan’s arms. > 

Catharine chafed his temples — his hands — used every 
means to recall him, but the spirit was gone for ever. 

Dunallan assisted Catharine in all her attempts. Mr. Craw- 
Ibrd also indulged eveiy wish, which in her almost distracted 
state of feelings, seemed to promise a ray of hope, though he 
gently expressed his fear that ever}' effort was vain. 

Dunallan at last took her hand in his. “ My dear Catharine, 
we expected this. How easily, how placidly has he left us ! 
M'e ought not to wish it otherwise.” 

Dunallan’s sootliing and tender tone of voice gave the desired 
turn to Catharine’s feelings. Slie burst into an agony of tears, 
and, disengaging herself from him, she clasped her arms around 
her father’s insensible remains, and wept without restraint. 
Dunallan was much affected, and did not for some time attempt 
to check her natural emotion. At last he again gently attempted 
to withdraw her from the scene. 

“ Remember, my dearest Catharine, who sends this affliction. 
We must believe that all His dispensations are dictated by His 
love, and attempt to prove our belief of this, and our gratitude, 
by resigning ourselves to His heavenly will.” 

Catharine allowed him to lead' her away a few steps, but then 
turned back, “I cannot leave him, Mr. Dunallan; let me see 

him carried to bed. Oh, my dear, my kindest father ” 

She would again have thrown herself upon the lifeless corpse, 
but Dunallan put his arm around her, and gently- drew her 
away. > ' 

“ Allow me, trust me, Catharine, to see all done as you wish.” 
He then led her reluctantly to her apartment. She entreated 
him to leave her, and return to the room they had left. Dunal- 
lan obeyed ; and Catharine, when left alone, struggled to gain 
command to her thoughts and recollection, and, throwing herself 

24 * 


282 


PUNALLAN ; OR, 


on her knees, she attempted to raise her confused and agitated 
thoughts to heaven, and to implore resignation to the Divine will. 
But her mind was unable to command itself. She continued on 
her knees unconscious of the presence of Martin, who had fol- 
lowed and stood near her in silent grief. At last some one 
knelt down beside her. She started and. looked up. “Mr. 
Dunallan ! ” exclaimed she. 

“ Let us remain here, my Catharine ; all is as you wish else- 
where. Let us together ask the support of Him, who, ‘ Hath 
smitten and will heal you.’ ” 

Catharine again bent down her head, and Dunallan, while he 
prayed, seemed to express the very inmost and undefined feel- 
ings of her heart. He expressed the most fervent gratitude 
for the light which had beamed on the departed spirit, before it 
had passed into its new and everlasting state of existence ; and 
she then ! dared to trust that the light was real. She became 
collected and composed as he proceeded. He prayed for her, 
that she might now be, enabled to rely on her Creator as her 
father ; that she might believe, and comprehend the glorious 
privileges of such a relation, the perfection of His character, 
who graciously called himself the Father of the orphan, the 
perfection of his wisdom, his guidance, his power, his love, his 
tenderness ; the happiness of those who trusted in Him, their 
security, their promise of light and peace and support in weak- 
nesfe. Dunallan’s voice trembled as he prayed for Catharine, 
and he seemed obliged to stop, because unable to command his 
feelings. 

When he had finished, he entreated her to retire to rest. 
“ To-morrow,” said he, “ I hope we shall be enabled to view 
this event with thankfulness.” 

Catharine could not speak. Dunallan ^ again ejaculated a 
fervent entreaty for the presence of her heavenly Father, and 
then left her. . v 

Catharine retired to bed, but not to sleep. She 'was, how- 
ever, calm, and indulged in that tenderness of grief, which the 
recollection of the kindness and affection of her father inspired. 
Towards morning she fell asleep, and for a time forgot all her 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


283 


sorrows. But how painful is the waking after such repose !’ 
How bitter the first return to recollection, and to the realitj>^ of 
what has happened ! Catharine felt all its misery. She did 
not leave her room that day till late in ‘the evening. Dun- 
allan met her with a calm seriousness of manner, which grad- 
ually restored that self command which she had lost on again 
meeting him. His conversation, too, as it' ever did, inter- 
ested, and, at the same time, strengthened her mind,' while 
his kindness soothed her heart. ' 


' ' ' CHAPTER XTX. 

A WEEK passed away. Dunallan seemed to have no object 
but Catharine in all he said and did. He led her to speak to 
him of her grief, and of all that was nearest her heart. Catha- 
rine unconsciously leaned to him next to Heaven for support 
and consolation. ' 

' Several more "weeks elapsed ; and again Catharine began to 
think of self, and of the future. She felt resigned to that will, 
which, in depriving her of her last parent, had gilded his dying 
moments with hope, and spared her witnessing any severe 
suffering. She felt thankful for having had one to console her 
in her grief, and to mourn with her, who had never for a mo- 
ment ceased, in attempting to reconcile her to her loss, to lead 
her thoughts to the only true source of consolation and hap- 
piness — who had seemed to feel so deeply for her, that he had 
forgotten eveiy other pursuit, every other objee;., to attend to 
her. Slle now recollected his extreme tenderness towards her 
for the week following her father’s death. She had then 
scarcely observed if; but now' she remembered to contrast it 
with the greatly colder, though still kind and gentle manner 
he had more lately assumed. She still thought his coldness 
assumed; for she had remarked him check himself several 
limes, and give a different turn to the tenderiiess of some 


DUN ALL AN; OR, 


284 ' 

expression he had just used. Yet, why should he wish to 
appear to feel more coldly towards her than he really did ? She 
had made no attempt to conceal her feelings from him ; and 
those feelings had led her to impart . to him almost every 
thought of her heart, and to meet him, after every interval of 
absence with delight. It was on those occasions, she had 
observed, that he attempted to alter the meaning of the expres- 
sions of pleasure he used on first meeting her. Catharine in 
vain attempted to discover a cause for his wishing, to repress 
his affections for her. She thought it would add to his hap- 
piness if he could love the woman to whom he was united for 
life. Her own happiness she now felt depended on him, as far 
as it could depend on any earthly being. At last she recollected 
what he had said about, her letter-s — about delusion, and self- 
deception, and a gleam of light seemed to* break upon her mind. 
“There mustrbe some mystery about those lettei*s,” thought 
she. She recollected his strange conduct on his first return to 
Arn more after being abroad — his saying he would never ask 
an explanation from her — his. having said more lately, that he 
detested concealments — that her letters were an excuse for the 
style of his — “ Why should I not at least ask him,” thought 
she, “ what there was in my letters that displeased him ? This 
does not intrude into his confidence farther than he chooses. 
Why should I risk the possibility of lessening his happiness 
if an explanation would prevent it?” Yet she shrank from the 
idea of asking this explanation. Perhaps it might produce 
nothing — perhaps it was only pity for her which had made 
him so tenderly kind. Her idea that he wished to conceal his 
feelings for her might be a mere fancy. She was called to 
meet Dunallan before she had come to any resolution. He 
was unusually grave, or rather sad, and met her without any 
apparent feeling of pleasure. She even thought there was a 
shade of displeasure, or rather disappointment, on his counte- 
nance. She forgot all her wishes about an explanation regard- 
ing herself, in the fear that something had happened to grieve 
Dunallan. It was now nearly two months since they had left 
Arnmore ; and it struck her that perhaps he might feel impa- 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


285 


tient to return thither, but was too delicate to propose her yet 
leaving Dunallan Castle. 

“ I fear, Mr. Dunallan,’^’ said she, “ that your goodness to me 
has deterred you longer from returning to Arnmore than is 
perhaps convenient. I know you had reasons for hastening 
your return from abi'oad;*! am ready to go back to Arnmore 
whenever you wish it.” 

“ I have no immediate wish to return to Arnmore, Catharine. 
I think we ought to finish our arrangements here before wo 
retura. Those papers and letters ought to be examined. Do 
you not agree with me in thinking that every, the minutest 
wish, expressed in a will, should be complied with ? ” 

“I certainly do; but it pains me to,dhink you should have 
the trouble.” 

“ Again ! ” interrupted Dunallan, “ I must believe, in time, 
Catharine, that you really wish to pain me by so repeatedly 
using such terms.” He seemed really displeased. 

Catharine’s eyes filled with tears, “ Jf I really could Avish to 
pain you for a moment, Mr. Dunallan ; if you can believe me 
capable of such ingratitude,, surely nothing 1 can do is worthy 
of costing you the most trifling uneasiness.” 

“Forgive me, Catharine,” said Dunallan, much softened; 
“ you Avould if you knew what at this moment almost unmans 
me.” 

Catharine looked alanned. 

“Do not be alarmed, dear Catharine,” said Dunallan, “yow, 
indeed, have no cause. I have only just received a letter from 
my miserable brother-in-laAV, Harcourt, informing me that he is 
in Britain, and in the most wretched circumstances.” 

“ And does he make any unpleasant proposal about the chil- 
dren ? ” asked Catharine, anxiously. 

“ No. none. He seems greatly changed. He has been com- 
pelled to leave India to escape his creditoi’s. His Avorthless 
Avife has abandoned him. He is noAV, in short, dear Catharine, 
in London — in the King’s Bench — in AA'retched health — • 
without friends — and AAuthout the means of existence ; and lie 
adds, ‘ Avith a conscience that is hell begun.’ ” 


286 


Pu^taltA^ ; OK, 

CatharinG \va^’ shocked but, a motneiirs' sile'ncer'^^’i 
think,” said she, “if his conscience has been so dreadfully awa- 
kened by the wretched consequences of his past guilt, there may 
be better hope for the future.” ^ 

“ Certainly,” replied 'Dunallan. ‘ ' 

“ Then why should’you feel this intelligence so distressing?” 
asked Catharine, anxiously. “ If Mr. Harcourt is truly changed, 
and truly wishes to 'reform, it will not be difficult , to arrange 
'worldly matters so as to make him tolerably comfortable. You 
know he is our brother,” continued she, gently ; “ the father of 
our sweet .little girls. Ought we not to hope the best, a^nd 
attempt every means in our power to lead him back to the right 
path, while bad health ahd an awakened conscience would assist 
our endeavors ? ” 

“ Most assuredly, dearest Catharine,” replied Dunallan, “ my 
duty is plain ; but I confess that at this time,'! find it difficult to 
perform. I cannot help turning from, and wishing to avoid it. 
But you have confirmed the dictates of my own conscience, 
‘and I must hesitate no longer.” 

“I do not know the circumstances wffiich ‘make this duty so 
painful to you; but,” added she, earnestly^ Mr. Dunallan, 

would, I am sure, find it far more painful to' be conscious of 
having neglected any duty. But forgive mO,” continued' she, 
blushing deeply, “ for presuming to preach to you.” 

“A thousand thanks, dear Catharine, for preaching to me. 
You preach truth ; and,” added he, sighing heavily as he spoke, 
“I must just submit, and again leave home.” 

“ Leave -home! ” exclaimed Catharine, becoming as pale as 
death. ‘ ' 

“ Yes, Catharine, Harcourt entreats, implores me to go to 
him. How can I, indeed, be of any real use to him unless I'do 
so ? ” ‘ 

Catharine felt -faint and sick at heart, and leaned back in her 
chair, unable to utter a word. 

“ Dearest Catharine,” said Dunallan eagerly, “ you shall 
dictate to me in this matter. At this moment I regard it as my 
first duty to be guided by your wishes, wffiatever'they are.” 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGK. 


287 


‘‘ I have no wishes,” replied Catharine ; and, bursting into 
tears, she disengaged herself from Dunallan, who would have 
detained her, and hurried to her own apartment. She there 
continued to weep and sob almost convulsively — so sudden and 
so overpowering was the idea that she was again so soon to be 
separated from Dunallan ; now almost her only friend — and 
such a friend. 

In a few minutes, Martin softly entered her room, and pre- 
sented a note from Dunallan, then immediately retired. 

“I have betrayed myself!” exclaimed Catharine, bitterly. 
“ How can he now; avoid coming to an explanation ? ” She 
scarcely dared open his note. 

“ My dearest Catharine, shall I ever understand you ? Need 
I say what that charm is which makes it so difficult for me to 
tear myself from home, my present home ! Ask your own 
heart, Catharine, whether, if I knew all its secrets, I ought to 
say no more ? Surely, thinking as you do, preaching as you so 
forcibly did to me within the last hour, you must feel that, on 
one subject, you would be more happy — more right, if you had 
no concealments with me. Yet, dearest Catharine, I only say 
this for your own sake. I do not urge you to give me your con- 
fidence on my account ; I will only say, that the slightest expla- 
nation on your part — the mere acknowledgment that you know 
to what I allude, would be most gratefully received by me — 
would be all I should ever ask. E. Dunallan.” 

Catharine read this note once, and again, and again : What 
on earth can he mean?” thought she. Once more she read 
sentence by sentence. 

“ Find such difficulty in understanding me ! Impossible, 
Dunallan I I am only too unguarded. If he knew all my 
secrets — what canjhe mean by this ? More happy, more right. 
I am only to acknowledge that I know to what he alludes.” In 
vain did Catharine attempt to find a meaning for Dunallan’s 
words. “ He seems to consider me guilty of something I ou^ht 
to confess to him,” thought she ; and her cheek glowed as she 
thought. “ There is some strange .mystery in all this. I will, 


288 


DUNALLAN ; OK, 


go, and at once ask an explanation.” She rose and went 
towards the door, but stopped. “ Why should 1 ask an explana- 
tion ? If Dunallan has listened to any report against me — bu-t 
it is impossible. Why should any one now wish to injure us in 
the opinion of each other ? ” She instantly recollected St. Clair, 
and light seemed to flash upon her ; but terror came with it. 
Never, never, M^ould she seek an explanation which might 
involve Dunallan in a quai'rel with St. Clair. Such an event 
might have been the very aim of St. Clair. “ But all this may 
only be a dream of my own imagination,” thought she, after 
liaving conjured up every frightful idea which followed such a 
supposition. She then recollected what Dunallan had said re- 
garding her letters to him, and she was again as much at a loss 
as ever. But time passed, and it was necessary, in some way, to 
answer Dunallan’s note. After several changes, she at last, in 
despair of expressing herself more guardedly, and at the same 
time openly, wrote as follows : 

“ I scarcely know how to reply to you. Surely, Mr. Dun- 
allan, if you believe me to be in any eri'or, you will not suffer 
me to continue so without pointing out to me what that error is. 
I am utterly unconscious of having any secrets — any conceal- 
ments, with you, on any subject, which the strictest sense of 
friendship, or este^, or duty, would forbid me to have. I can- 
not acknowledge that I know to what you allude, for I liave in 
vain attempted to understand you. I can say no more. Allow 
me, however, to write, instead of saying, good-night ; for I con- 
fess my head aches violently, in consequence of what has passed 
during the last two hours.'' C. Dunallan.” 

Catharine sent her note 'to Dunallan, and then, for a time, 
listened to every sound, in the expectation of receiving an 
answer. None came, however. Martin at last appeared ; but 
only with an inquiry on Dunallan’s part. 

“ Shall I tell Mr. Dunallan, ma’am, that you are quite 
recovered? he seems so distressed and anxious.” 

“ You may, Martin,” replied Catharine ; “ though I am sure 
it is not true,” thought she, as Martin left the room. 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


289 


Catharine remained for the rest of the evening in her own 
apartment, in vain endeavoring to understand tlie meaning of 
Dunallan’s conduct towards her. She again attempted to re- 
collect the contents of her letters to him during his absence, to 
which he had alluded in so strange a manner ; but she could 
recollect nothing to account for any thing that had passed. At 
length, after many and various unsatisfactory suppositions, she 
determined, that, before she was again separated from him, she 
should attempt to ask an explanation, at least, with regard to 
those letters. To this separation, however, she looked forward 
with dread. Why did he never seem to think she could accom- 
^ pany him ? But why, indeed, did he never do any thing she 
could understand, while his mrinner always conveyed an idea of 
the most perfect openness ? 

Next morning Catharine felt so conscious of having betrayed 
the state of her feelings to Dunallan, while his conduct and 
feelings towards her remaiiied so inexplicable, that she dreaded 
again meeting him, and delayed it as long as she could, then 
'^entered the breakfast-room, where he already was, with the 
greatest embarrassment of manner. Dunallan anxiously in- 
quired for her health ; but she received his inquiries with reserve 
and coldness, and his manner instantly became as cold and con- 
strained as her own. He did not even allude to what had passed 
the evening before ; and Catharine, though she had supposed 
she wished that he might, now felt relieved when he did not, and 
again ventured to raise her eyes to him when she spoke. He 
looked grave and she thought displeased, and immediately after 
breakfast proposed resuming the examination of Lord Dunallan’s 
letters and papers. These were very numerous ; and the cause 
of Lord Dunallan’s wish, that they should be carefully examined, 
was, that among them he believed there was a correspondence 
between him and a person now high in power, respecting the 
representation of the county ; which he had left a written wish 
I Dunallan should see, but which he had not so marked as to dis- 
j tinguish it from his other numerous letters and papers. There 
I were other letters and papers which it was necessary to examine ; 
j and during this (occasionally very tiresorhe) occupation, Dun- 

25 


290 


dunallan; oil, 


allan had found means to mingle conversation so successfully, 
that Catharine had got through her labors without fatigue. 
After being busily employed for some hours on this morning, 
Dunallan proposed walking out, to which she readily consented. 
It was now towards the end of March ; the weather clear and 
invigorating, and nature beginning to wear the appearance of 
spring. Dunallan and Catharine seemed equally to feel its 
influence, and the coldness and reserve of both gradually passed 
away. Dunallan was again as interesting in conversation as he 
always was, and Catharine as open and undisguised as if the 
note of the preceding evening had never been written. Many 
things, however, as they preceded, recalled her father to Catha- 
rine’s recollection, and mingled a feeling of deep sadness with 
the pleasure produced by the beauty and freshness of the objects 
around her. Dunallan seemed to guess what her thoughts were, 
and soon turned the conversation to subjects which led her to 
give expression to her thoughts, while his manner became as 
kind and gentle as ever. 

“ The day is so charming, I for a time forgot every thing 
else,” said Catharine : “ but how seldom do we feel unmixed 
pleasure, even for a few moments. I have observed this so 
much, that now, whenever my heart feels light I begin to look 
about for the grief I had forgot.” 

“ ’T is too true, Catharine ; yet I believe it is best. Truth 
must be best : and there is no time on this side the grave in 
which we have not something either to mourn for or to dread.” 

“ But that is a very gloomy thought, Mr. Dunallan.” 

“ It appears so ; but what happiness we may enjoy cannot 
consist, or rather ought not to consist in delusion. Have your 
happiest moments, Catharine, been those in which you were 
most gay ? ” 

Catharine thought for a little, “ No, certainly. I have shed 
tears in my happiest moments, but they were tears of delight.” 

“ Yes, Catharine ; but delight which expresses itself by tears 
partakes of sadness. There will be no tears in heaven. And 
on earth, the most unmixed happiness is, I think, enjoyed in 
those moments when our hearts are most in unison with the 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


291 


inhabitants of heaven, that is, when they are so completely de- 
voted to the Lord of heaven, as to love all his dispensations 
whatever they are.” 

There was an expression of elevation in Dunallan’s counte- 
nance when he said this, and his eyes were raised to the cloud- 
less sky above them with such fulness of devotion, that Catha- 
rine felt how completely he was speaking from his own feelings. 
She remained silent. Dunallan turned to her. 

“ Do you not agree with me, Catharine ? ” 

“ I see you know what that unmixed happiness is,” replied 
she. 

“ I attempt to seek it, Catharine ; but at this moment I do 
not quite succeed. I cannot feel entire submission to that duty 
which will again make me a solitary traveller, uncertain wheth- 
er on my return I may not find you formal and resj)ectful, and 
above all, so insufferably grateful.” 

Catharine wished to reply, but she was taken by surprise, 
and could not ; and Dunallan, after a pause, began to talk on 
another subject. 

On returning towards the house, Catharine observed that 
Dunallan’s horses were in waiting for him. 

“ You are going to ride, Mr. Dunallan.” 

“Y'es. I am so impatient to hear how poor Harcourt is, and 
what is to be my own fate, that I am myself going to ride to the 
village for my letters.” 

“ Do you recollect that the village is seven miles off.” 

“ I do,” replied Dunallan ; ‘‘ but I have still two hours be- 
fore dinner. Adieu, dear Catharine,” and hurrying from her, 
he mounted his horse, kissed his hand several times, and was 
soon out of sight. 

These two hours Catharine passed in painful anxiety, and in 
conjecturing what could be the cause of Dunallan’s extreme 
unwillingness to leave her ; for kind and gentle as he was, his 
conduct said most plainly that regard for her was not the cause. 
In vain she thought over every circumstance she could recollect 
that could throw light on the subject. At last she observed 
from her window Dunallan rapidly approaching, and forgetting 


292 


DUN ALLAN ; OK, 


every thing in her impatience to know the result of his hurried 
ride, she flew down stairs to meet liim. His looks on entering 
the hall confirmed all her fears. He seemed grave and sad 
and disappointed. On seeing her, however, a smile of pleasure 
for a moment brightened his countenance, 

“I must go immediately, Catharine,” replied he to her anxious 
and inquiring looks. “ Poor Harcourt is very ill.” 

“ Immediately^'" repeated she, repressing as much as she could 
lier regret and disappointment. 

“ Immediately ; dear Catharine. I have a letter from the 
physician who attends Harcourt. He thinks very ill of his 
case.” 

Dunallan led Catharine into the nearest apartment, and gave 
her the letter he had just received. It was humanely and feel- 
ingly written, and concluded with these words ; — “I hope you 
will forgive my adding, that it seems carrying the punishment 
too far in the friends of this unfortunate young man, so com- 
pletely to abandon him, when he has not above a few weeks to 
live, to all the wretchedness, not only of his own guilty con- 
science, but to that also arising from the carelessness and neglect 
of those heartless mercenaries who can alone be found in the 
wretched place he now inhabits.” 

“ Ought I to resist that appeal, Catharine ? ” asked Dunallan, 
as she returned the letter to him. 

“ Certainly not,” replied she, sighing deeply. 

“ I hav.e been thinking, dear Catharine,” resumed Dunallan, 
that as your cousin Elizabeth cannot come to you, perhaps you 
miglit find pleasure in spending a short time with her while we 
are separated.” 

“ I certainly should,” replied Catharine. 

“Well then, dear Catharine, if you will allow me to conduct 
you to her, I shall feel absence less painful when I know you 
are so happily situated.” 

“ And how soon, JMr. Dunallan must you go ? ” 

“ I cannot remain here after to-morrow, of if you could travel 
so early, my dearest Catharine, before breakfast, perhaps at 
seven o’clock the morning after.” 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


293 


Catharine’s Heart sunk on Iiearing tliat the dreaded separation 
was so near ; and on attempting to reply, she burst into tears. 
She soon, however, succeeded in suppressing her emotion, which 
Dunallan now made no attempt to soothe or overcome, though 
his voice, when he again addressed her, completely betrayed the 
softened state of his own feelings. He only spoke, however, of 
indifferent matters, such as finishing the examination of papers, 
and other arrangements. 

The evening was devoted to these employments, and passed 
heavily away. 

Part of next morning was spent in the same way ; and when 
at last Dunallan informed Catharine, that every thing necessary 
was completed ; though she felt relieved, she also felt as if, not 
only her separation from him was to be her next sad task, but 
as if in finishing all the arrangements directed by her father, 
she had now, indeed, put a close to all intercourse with him. 
She left Dunallan, and went to those apartments which had 
been her father’s. She had spent many, many hours since his 
death in those apartments, in resting her head on that couch 
where he had breathed his last,^and indulging the melancholy 
which the remembrance of his kindness inspired. His books, 
-his large chair, all remained just as he had left them. She now 
wept bitterly over those sad remembrancers. She again laid 
her head where she had last seen that of her dying father. She 
recalled his beloved countenance ; his kindly affectionate looks ; 
his smile of joy whenever she approached, and her tears flowed 
without control ; yet her grief was mixed with a feeling of ten- 
derness and gratitude to heaven. The last expression of her 
father’s countenance was still vividly impressed on her memory ; 
and she dared indulge the hope that she would be led on in the. 
straight and narrow way, till at the close of her pilgi'image, she 
might again meet this first known and beloved being who had 
entered before her on that new and untried existence to which 
she, too, was travelling. Oppressed and sad, Catharine remained 
indulging such ideas, which gradually tended to compose and 
elevate her feelings above all the passing pains, and attach- 
"ments, and disappointments of a ' fleeting world, until hearing 

25 * 


294 


dunallan; ok, 


some one enter the antechamber in search of -her, she at last 
forced herself away, locking the door of the apartment in which 
she had last seen her father, determined that henceforth it should 
be inhabited by no one but herself. 

On meeting Dunallan at dinner, he seemed, by the soothing 
tenderness of his manner, to guess how she had been employed, 
and soon, by his conversation, in some degree chased away the 
melancholy which had nearly overpowered her. 

As the evening advanced, however, Dunallan himself became 
more and more grave ; and one subject weighed so heavily on 
Catharine’s mind, that it rendered her almost silent, while she 
continued to revolve in her thoughts whether there could be 
any impropriety, any danger, any thing that could possibly 
wound or displease Dunallan in her indulging her wishes. This 
was, in asking an explanation regarding her own letters to him 
during his former absence. At last, when the evening drew 
almost to a close, Dunallan, who had for some time also sunk 
into thoughtful silence, asked Catharine if he' had her permis- 
sion to write to her while away? There was something unu- 
sually cold and severe in the tone of Dunallan’s voice Avhen he 
asked this. 

Catharine looked up ; Dunallan’s eyes were fixed, upon her, 
while he waited for her answer ; she hesitated, and blushed 
deeply. 

“You do not wish to write to me, Catharine?” 

“ Mr. Dunallan,” • replied she, again blushing still more 
deeply, “ may I ask an explanation of what you once said to 
me respecting my former letters to you ? only, however, as far 
as regards myself. Do you remember to what I allude ?” This 
question cost Catharine so much confusion, that she did not 
perceive the impression it made on Dunallan. She looked 
down, and waited for his reply to what she thought was perhaps 
an improper request, without daring to. raise her eyes. His 
brightened with pleasure. He looked in delight for some mo- 
ments at her now pale and downcast and apprehensive coun- 
tenance. 

“I do remember most perfectly to what you allude, dear 
Catharine.” 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


295 


“ But surely you was mistaken, or there is something in what 
you said that I do not understand.” 

“ Oh, no, Catharine, I could not be mistaken. I remember 
those letters too well ; and it is only a few days ago, that in the 
hope I might have in some degree mistaken their meaning, I 
again read them. But you shall judge for yourself whether I 
have been mistaken. I shall) return them to you to dispose of 
as you choose. If you can say, dearest Catharine, after you 
have read them, that your heart now feels they were too cold, 
too regardless of what I should feel on receiving them, I shall 
ask no more.” He then left the room, and returning in a few 
minutes, presented a packet to Catharine. 

“ I beg you Avill read those letters according to their dates,” 
said he, “you will then perhaps remember to which of mine 
they wei’e answers.” 

Catharine promised to do as Dunallan wished, and then tak- 
’ ing leave for the night, hastened with her packet to her own 
apartment, wondering what Dunallan could have expected her 
to write, as she recollected that her only dread had been, on 
recalling the style of her letters to him, that of having too 
plainly indulged the feelings of the moment in some expres- 
sions. 

She opened the first letter in the packet, but it seemed so 
short she could not believe it w^as that she had written in reply 
to Dunallan’s long letter, in which he had so generously con- 
fided to her all the most private feelings and events of his life. 
But on examining dates, she found it was the first she could 
have written to him after his leaving England. 

She began to read ; but as she proceeded, started with aston- 
ishment at the style. She looked at the address — the seal — ■ 
the hand — all were her own. She again began to read : but 
before she had finished the half of the first page, she was con- 
vinced that the letter was not hers, and that some treachery 
had been employed to destroy the happiness of Dunallan and 
■ herself. She had gathered up the letters, and was returning^to 
inform Dunallan of her suspicions, when she was struck with 


296 


DUNALLAN; OR, 


the apparent improbability of such a story. “ Would Dunallan 
believe that any one could thus exactly imitate her hand, that 
any one would .dare to open letters addressed to him, and change 
their meaning ? ” 

She again sat down in despair. There was one being in the 
Avorld, who she knew could write her hand exactly, and every 
hand he chose to imitate. It had been his boyish pastime and 
delight. This was St. Clair ; and she instantly felt certain that 
he was the author of all her late unhappiness from Dunallan’s 
unaccountable conduct. She recollected the dark expression 
of his countenance the last morning she had seen him, and 
lier suspicions were confirmed. ‘ But she also recollected the 
pride and violence of his character, and again shuddered at the 
idea of Dunallan’s attempting to seek from him any explanation 
on such a subject. Yet she feared that she could thus only 
clear herself to Dunallan. She soon, however, determined never 
to clear herself at such a risk, and began again to read the let- 
ter Dunallan had so long believed to be her ansAver to his kind 
and' open aA'owal of all his errors, and hie warm and feeling 
expression of interest in herself. She felt sick at heart as she 
proceeded. 

“My dear Sir, — I received your very long letter, dated a 
few days ago; ' I ought, and do thank you for this new proof of 
confidence in me, and hope I shall still act so as to deserve it. 
The account you give of the death of your friend Mr. Churchill 
affected me much, and I sincerely pity you for liaving lost such 
a friend. Allow me again to repeat my grateful thanks to you 
for the interest you express in my happiness. Mrs. Oswald is 
very kind and attentive to me ; and I still endeavor to find 
pleasure in those occupations you pointed out to me as most use- 
ful to you in your absence, and most beneficial to me. I hope 
when you return I shall be so happy as to meet with your ap- 
probation. My fiither is still at Dunallan Castle, and is to remain 
there for some months. I do not mean to leave Arnmore, and 
I hope this determination Avill satisfy you. I still only wish to 


KNOW AVIIAT YOU JUDGE. 


297 


know your desires ; and whatever mine might have been, I shall 
now leave no means untried to teach myself to feel, 

‘‘ Your afiectionate and dutiful 

“ C. Dunallan ” 

Catharine clasped her hands, and raised her imploring eyes 
to heaven, when she. had finished this cold^ and trifling letter, 
with its meanly cruel conclusion. ~ 

“ AVliat shall I do ? Can I leave Dunallan in the belief that 
I could write such an answer to his letter ? Kind, forgiving 
Dunallan ; ” she burst into tears. “ No, no, he must be unde- 
ceived. But how can I undeceive him ? That vile St. Clair, 
who could stoop to such villany, -what might he not do in 
revenge, if he knew that I had detected and betrayed his vile- 
ness.” She read the other letters, — they were colder- and still 
more repining. “ What can I do?” exclaimed she aloud ; and 
starting up, she again determined to go to Dunallan, and assure 
him she had never written the letters he had given her. But 
she again stopped in despair. Dunallan’s danger from the hatred 
of St. Clair, should he make inquiries, and discover what she 
believed to be the truth, rushed into her mind, and overcame 
every other feeling, even the desire to vindicate hei’self. She 
again sat down in deep and painful thought, but soon had re- 
course to her ever-poweiful refuge in difficulty. She threw her- 
self upon her knees, nor did she rise from them till she felt able 
and willing to leave the event in the hands of the all-wise,' and 
all-powerful, and all-good Disposer of every circumstance in her 
life. She then retired to calm and undisturbed and peaceful 
rest, feeling sweetly and confidently sure that she and Dunallan 
were safe under “ the shadow of the wings of the Almighty.” 

Early next morning she awoke in the same exalted state of 
feeling. The carriage was already at the door, and prepara- 
tions making for the journey before her. She had determined 
what she should do before she quitted her room. Dunallan was 
in the hall to meet her, and she received him with composed, 
though downcast looks. 

“ I fear I am making you travel too early, Catharine.” 


298 


dunallan; ok, 


“ No, indeed. Have I detained you ? ” 

“ Not at ail ; but I must now hurry you away.” 

She gave him her hand. After following her into the car- 
riage, he still detained it in his ; and the door was scarcely 
closed upon them when he turned to her. 

Catharine, I must ask what your opinion of your letters 
no\'^ is ? Forgive my impatience ; but do they not plead my 
excuse with you, for any appearance of chagrin or disappoint- 
ment in mine ? ” 

“ Mr. Dunallan,” replied Catharine, solemnly, and turning 
to him as she spoke, “ I never wrote those lettei's ;* they are not 
mine.” 

Dunallan looked at her in astonishment “ Not yours, Cath- 
arine ? ” 

“ I see you do not believe me,” said she, turning away, 
and bursting into teal's. “ Indeed, how is it possible you 
should ? ” 

** Dearest Catharine, you can say nothing I will not believe ; 
but what did you say? Did I understand you? Were those 
letters not written by you ? ” 

“ No, never. Could you believe I had written such a letter 
as that one, in reply, to your generous confidence, and not have 
detested me ? ” 

Dunallan was silent for a few moments, 

“ Catharine,” said he at last, energetically, “ I will then leave 
nothing unexplained. The cold formality of your letters to me 
did indeed pain me more than I can easily tell you ; but another 
letter fell into my hands, which excited feelings I hope you 
will never be able to conceive ; and which, I confess, were the 
cause of my sudden return home. I have this letter with me ; 
indeed it is always with me, because I did not wish to destroy it, 
yet dreaded its falling into any hands but those who W'ould 
have delivered it to you. I once said I should never ask an 
explanation from you, — I meant respecting this letter, which I 
thought you must have guessed had fallen into my hands ; but 
now — perhaps — ” 

I entreat you let me explain every thing regarding my- 
self, ” said Catliai'ine, earnestly. 


KNOW WHAT you JUDGE. 


299 


Dunallan then produced a letter, from which he tore the 
envelope, and presented it to her. He then turned away, and 
seemed busily engaged in looking at the objects seen from the 
carriage window. 

Catharine trembled as she opened this letter. The address 
was written in her hand ; but beneath it was added, in Dun- 
allan’s writing, “Addressed by mistake to me ; ” and on another 
part of the letter, “ To be given unopened to Mrs. Dunallan, 
in the event of my death. E. Dunallan.” Catharine began 
to read; but after the first few words, could scarcely proceed. 
She however persevered. 

“ You have convinced me, my dear friend, that there is noth- 
ing really wrong in my corresponding with you, since, as you 
say, it is only the expression of soul. I shall again, therefore, 
indulge in tliat pleasure. I do not disavow the misery I feel 
when I reflect on the tie which binds me forever to a being so 
singular, — so unlike whatever could inspire affection in me. 
Yet, my fri<md, he is good and gentle to me, and I really wish 
to feel for him, at least gratitude. I know not what has taken 
him abroad, but I believe his motive is good. You ask me if 
I write frequently to Mr. Dunallan ? I do ; and you would pity 
me on the days I have to fulfil this task.^ Yet I am wrong, 
and blame myself for not .feeling more kindness towards him. 
Inde(?d, before he left me, his mildness and goodness had so 
far won upon me, that I at least felt benevolence, — or I do not 
know what. But adieu to this painful subject ; only I entreat 
that in your letters you never mention him but with respect. 
You will pain me if you do otherwise. I admire your defini- 
tion of the word friendship. ‘That kind of love which will 
not be changed by death. The passion of the soul.’ You ask 
]ne, do I feel this for youj my friend? If I understand you, I 
do. Oh how cheerfully would I lay down my life, and all that 
it now promises, to meet you* and one other friend in another 
state, — you and my pjlizabeth. But this is not allowed us; 
we must live apart; we must disguise the feelings of our hearts, 
and pretend to love where we are indifferent ; and to be indiffer- 
ent where we love, till the few short years of our painful exist- 


300 


DUNALLAN ; OR, 


ence terminate. I think, my friend, you will scarcely recognize 
your gay and playful tormentor, as you used to call me : but 
writing to you recalls every idea of lost happiness. Adieu, 
friend of my soul. Yours, Catharine Dunaelan.” 

Catharine’s cheek glowed with shame and indignation while 
she with difficulty got through this letter, ^he had unconsciously 
turned away from Dunallan, as much as she possibly could, 
while reading it ; and when she came to its conclusion, she was 
so overwhelmed she could neither speak nor raise her eyes. 
“ How could Dunallan forgive this ” thought she. “ How could 
he even bear me in his sight? Vile! cruel St. Clair! For- 
giving, generous, noble Dunallan ! ” 

- “ My dear Catharine,” said Dunallan, “ can you forgive my 
showing you that letter ? 1 have done so that you might under- 
stand my past conduct, and in the hope that you would pardon 
it. I hastened home, because I thought the person who had 
written the letter to which I supposed that was the answer, could 
not be a safe friend, because I knew you were too ignorant of 
the world, dearest Catharine, to know the danger of such 
friendships.” 

“ And did you believe I had written that letter ? Oh ! Mr. 
Dunallan, could you believe I had written such a letter after the 
vows I had made, and still feel the kindness of a friend for one 
capable of such ” 

“ I could have loved you as a brother, Catharine, whatever 
you had done,” interrupted Dunallan. Plow have I struggled 
to overcome a far stronger feeling than that of a brother for 
you ! What a load have you removed from my heart, Catha- 
rine — from my conscience ! ” He looked up to heaven with an 
expression of the deepest gratitude. ‘His eyes were softened 
almost to tears. 

“ Dearest Catharine ! dearest of human beings, can I at this 
moment ask more ? Yet you have mentioned those vows which 
1 promised I should never recall to your recollection ; must I 
still keep that promise ? ” 

“Yes, Mr. Dunallan, I wish you still to regard me as your 
sister until ” 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


BOX 


“ Until when ? dearest Catharine.” 

Until I can convince you that I never did write those odious 
^ letters.” 

I _ “ I am con\dnced you never did, Catharine, completely con- 

vinced. Your character, which was the most painful enigma 
to me, while I feared you had written them — at least the last, is 
now all consistency — all ingenuousness. I have, I am now 
sure, been right in the way I have read its various feelings ever 
I since I knew you, — and that blush and smile too, Catharine.” 

“ Oh ! do not, I entreat you, attempt to read so exactly I ” 
exclaimed Catharine, blushing still more deeply. 

Why, Catharine,” asked Dunallan, looking smilingly at her 
blushing countenance, “ may I not at least ask if I am right in 
the conclusion I would form, from all I have read ? ” 

“ I do not know — I believe not — I dare say you are mis- 
taken.” 

Dunallan tooTc lier hand in his. “ Oh no, my Catharine, I 
am not mistaken. You are too artless, — your sweet looks are 
too true to your heart for any one to mistake you. Those very 
letters could not overcome the influence of that artlessness. 

' Why, Catharine, do you wish to keep me miserable ? Am I 
now mistaken in thinking that vdiat would make me happy — 
happier than I have Avords to express — the certainty that there 
Avas no thought, or Avish, or feeling in either of our hearts 
unknown, unshared by the other, Avould also add to your happi- 
ness ? Am I wrong in believing that it is an idea of my still 
possibly feeling some uncertainty respecting those letters Avhich 
preA'ents you, at this moment, from being perfectly frank Avith 
me ? I shall, the moment I arrive at London, attempt to clear 
up this strange mystery. I suspect I knoAV who is the author 

of these cruel mistalces, but ^ ” 

“ For heaven’s sake,” interrupted Catharine, Avith ten’or in ^ 
her looks, “ make no inquiry, — do nothing about those letters. 
You do not knoAV the violence — tlie mad rashness of St Clair’s 
character. Oh ! if» you do not Avish to make me miserable, 
promise me you Avill do nothing in this affair ! ” 

26 


302 


dunallan; or, 


Dunallan smiled. “ I did not name Mr. St. Clair, Catharine.’’ 

Catharine looked thunderstruck at her own imprudence. 

“I see, Catharine, our suspicions have fallen on the same 
person, however,” resumed Dunallan, “ and I think probably 
with justice. I now remember his wonderful facility in imita- 
ting writing, particularly yours, Catharine ! Oh ! had this 
recollection come sooner ! But surely, my sweet, my Christian 
friend, you do not think I would so forget my duty to heaven, 
as to seek this explanation in any way that would endanger the 
safety of either ? ” 

“No, indeed. But, Mr. Dunallan, you do not know St. 
Clair. Oh ! if you have any value for my peace, promise me 
that you will not attempt to see him,” added she, the tears 
starting into her imploring eyes. 

Dunallan seemed rather surprised. “Your peace is very 
dear to me, Catharine. I shall make any promise you wish, to 
assure you of this.” • 

Catharine’s face glowed ; she did not quite understand the 
meaning of Dunallau’s words and looks, and taking his hand in 
both of hers, “ You are right, Mr. Dunallan,” said she, “ in 
thinking that if every thought and feeling of my heart were 
known to you, I should be happier, for you can read it wrong.” 

“Why, then, Catharine, lead me to read it wrong? Why 
sometimes make me believe you. could be happy with me, and 
then say what leads me to fear there is some unknown objec- 
tion — some unwillingness you cannot overcome ? If there is, 
tell me, my Catharine, — if there is any imprudent friendship, 
any misplaced confidence, any thing that it might afterwards 
pain me to know; or tell me only that there exists sometl)ing 
you do not wish imparted to me, I shall ask no farther.” 

“ There is nothing I wish to impart to you, Mr. Dunallan. 
All I wish is this, that you would not make inquiries respect- 
ing those letters, because, for your sake, I fear the revengeful 
violence of St. Clair’s character ; and because I do not believe 
his pride would ever suffer him to acknowledge to you that he 
had been guilty of such dishonorable conduct ; and because,” 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDO?:. 


303 


added she, looking at Dunallan as she spoke, “ I should greatly 
dislike the idea of disgracing all the St. Clairs, were such 
discovery made by legal means. Yet until I can prove to you 
that I never did write those letters, I cannot feel quite worthy 
of your confidence ; and, until I do, I cannot wish to remember 
my vows.” 

“ But, Catliarine, if you cannot be satisfied unless the mystery 
regarding those letters is cleared away, and yet will not suffer 
me to make any inquiries respecting them, what is to be done ? ” 

“ I shall myself attempt to come at an explanation.” 

“ But if you do not succeed, dear Catharine, which is most 
probable.” 

“ Why, then, I must just try to ‘prove to you that it was 
impossible I should ever have written them.” 

“ I am convinced of that already, Catharine.” 

“Well, if you will promise me not to seek, by any means, a 
meeting with St. Clair, on any subject, I shall, on your return, 
if I cannot find means to convince you otherwise, and more 
satisfactorily, attempt to do so by being very obedient and 
dutiful, and so forth,” said she, quickly, and turning away as 
she spoke. 

“ And with your whole heart, Catharine, even if there had 
been no vows ? ” 

“ With my whole heart, Dunallan.” 

“Then, my own Catharine, let us now really take those vows 
which one of us at least could not take before.” He then raised 
her hand in his to heaven, and implored that blessing without 
which they could enjoy no real happiness, though all besides 
should smile upon them. He prayed for himself, — that the 
sweetest of all gifts might not wean his heart from the Giver ; 
for both, th<‘it they might remember they were but strangers 
and pilgrims on earth, and their dearest comforts wmuld become 
injurious to their best and everlasting interests, if they led them 
to forget that better country, where alone there was perfect 
goodness or perfect happiness. 

Catharine felt sweetly assured, by Dnnallan’s appeal to Heaven, 
for every blessing; and — but it would take volumes to tell all 


304 


DUN ALL an; ok, 


that was said and remembered and explained in the first per- 
fect confidence of the following hours. Besides, happiness will 
not describe, for no description satisfies hope, and to experience, 
every description seems extravagant. As the day passed, how- 
ever, and the time of separation approached, the bitter ingre- 
dients which mingle with every earthly enjoyment, began to 
depress the feelings of the travellers. Still, however, duty 
said — humanity said, that Dunallan must proceed, and arrange- 
ments could not be altered ; he ought not to delay till Catharine 
could accompany him. He, however, at length received Cath- 
arine’s promise, that if, on meeting Ilarcourt, he should find that 
he had any wish to see his children, a wish he had not yet ex- 
pressed, she would accompany Mrs. Oswald and them, and meet 
Dunallan in London. This promise, for a time, dispelled the 
gathering gloom, and again restored a degree of cheerfulness to 
their conversation. 

“ And so you think you have read all my thoughts ever since 
that dreadful day you arrived so willingly at Dunallan Castle,” 
said Catharine, playfully. “ I suspect you must be mistaken, 
or surely you have an affection for some very great faults.” 

“ Shall I tell you what I read, my Catharine ? ” 

She smiled. “ Will you not be very unmerciful ? ” 

“ Not more so, I promise, than you long were to me.” 

“ Oh ! I believe I will not trust you ; for people who are 
given to that kind of reading often make mistakes.” 

“ Perhaps they may ; but I shall appeal to yourself whether 
I do.” . 

“ Oh ! no, no,” replied she ; but Dunallan smilingly pro- 
ceeded. “ When I first came to Dunallan Castle, I was much 
prejudiced against you, Catharine, and on one point, very near 
my heart, that of religion, I knew, for I had made most particu- 
lar inquiry, that we probably should not have one idea in com- 
mon.” 

Catharine began to listen Avithout opposition. 

“ Well,” proceeded Dunallan, “ I did arrive Avith a very 
heavy heart, and most melancholy anticipations for .the future. 
I shall not say how much these Avere done away by the first im- 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 305 

pression your appearance made upon me. You had been repre- 
sented to me as haughty and unfeminine in manner. I remem- 
bered that you had been so in some degree in your childhood ; 
but I then saw you struggling, as you approached, again^ feel- 
ings which, however, overcame you, and gave to your appear- 
ance the most feminine softness. You afterwards did assume 
looks of haughtiness and contempt ; and when I found J you 
seated in the drawing-room with several old ladies standing 
around you, while you, regardless of every one else, listless, and 
careless, reclined in your chair, >and received the incense of ob- 
sequious admirers, who made court to you, by flattering your 
faults, I felt that my first pleasing impression was taking flight. 
When, however, the deep blush and look of consciousness fol- 
lowed your observance of the disapproving countenance of even 
an unwelcome and not esteemed stranger, I was convinced you 
had a mind, which, though it might be injured by prosperity 
and adulation, was still alive to the best impressions. Your ob- 
vious determination, immediately afterwards, to show me that 
you did not mean to change your conduct one hair breadth in 
consequence of my observations, seemed to me so perfectly nat- 
ural in your circumstances, that I found it rather engaging to 
me, and then your generous feeling of pity on that evening 
W'hen my persecutor, St. Clair, attempted to wound me in the 
tenderest part ; in short, on the first day I saw you, I had i-ead 
so far that I had found you at least an object of very great in- 
terest to me. Every day afterwards increased that interest. I 
saw you were proud, at least in one sense. You had little re- 
spect for the opinions of others ; and with your uniform open- 
ness showed the utmost indifference, or even contempt for those 
around you, at least most of them ; but at the same time you 
really did not think highly of yourself. You were often even 
humble in that respect, and always sincere. I soon saw you 
were strongly prejudiced against me, and that several of those 
around you endeavored to increase that prejudice, yet you gen- 
erally were just and candid, even to me ; and I saw with delight, 
when I expressed sentiments or opinions different from yours, 
and from others who sought to please you, by agreeing with you, 

•26 * 


306 


dunallan; or, 


that where mine were really more just and right, you almost 
always, before we left the subject, became of my opinion. This 
interested me very warmly in you, and gave me an ardent de- 
sire to use every means to lead you to judge and think for 
yourself. This interest in you, my dearest Catharine, I believe 
defeated its own object. I went too far, and 3^00 shrunk from 
my harshness.” 

“ Ah, I remember the time to which jmu allude,” said Catha- 
rine, “ and how justly you blamed me. I felt then that you 
Avere just, but I thought you severe.” 

“ I was unpardonable^ harsh ; but I suffered for it. You were 
then, Catharine, become very dear to me, and I deeply regretted 
having done any thing to deprive myself of the little favor you 
sometimes before that had showed me. But, Catharine,” asked 
Dunallan, “ do you remember what followed ? ” 

Catharine thought for a little, and soon recollected the pleasure 
she had then felt on perceiving the power she had acquired over 
Dunallan’s happiness. She blushed, “ I do, Mr. Dunallan, and 
I believe you read justly on that occasion.” 

“ Ah, Catharine, that was the first time my penetration gave 
me any hope, at least transient hope. I saw you had no objec- 
tion to feel your power over me. I determined, however, not 
to submit to being imrpqsely tormented even by you, and I saw 
you understood me. I used every endeavor I could at that 
time to induce your father to delay our union. I hoped, per- 
haps, to gain a place in your esteem, for by that time I really 
Avould have felt it a painful sacrifice to duty had I succeeded in 
my endeavors to put a final stop to our marriage. Had I suc- 
ceeded I must have fled from you.” 

“ Why ? ” asked Catharine. 

“ Because, my dearest Catharine, you did not then feel on tlie 
subject of religion as you now do.” 

“But I should have had the same means to lead me to those 
feelings, the same instructions, the same example.” 

“ Yes, my Catharine, but a Christian must not venture to 
calculate on the success of means unless he is confident that 
he is in the path of duty. Success does not depend on him, 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


307 


and he cannot hope for it when he has left the path of duty, 
and preferred the indulgence of his earthly affections to the 
plainest interests of his immortal soul; and chosen to place 
nearest his heart, and to give the most constant influence* over 
his conduct, and over his affections, and in his family, to one 
who yet neither knows, nor loves, nor serves his Master. I 
should have had no hesitation on this subject. I too well knew 
how deceitful my own heart was, to listen to its arguments on 
such a matter ; and till the day on which I found I could no 
longer avoid fulfilling my promise to my father, I sincerely did 
all in my power, both for your sake and my own, to prevent, if 
possible, the fulfilment of a promise I had sinned in making, 
and would probably be led into continual temptation by fulfill- 
ing. But to return — after the day for our marriage was fixed^ 
I saw my hopes of gaining your affection were at an end. 
You felt yourself a sacrifice, and naturally regarded me with 
dread and aversion. You then really detested me. I then 
wrote those letters I before mentioned to you. I would have 
done any thing to restore you to peace ; but while I watched 
continually for the possibility of assuring you that I would, 
you as carefully avoided me. You would not even look at me, 
or if you did, the expression of your countenance said, ‘ Most 
hated and mistaken being, though I sacrifice myself to my 
father’s wishes, do not flatter yourself that one feeling of mine 
agrees with those wishes.’ ” 

“ Oh, you have read very, very well,” said Catharine, laugh- 
ing. “ And now, pray, what did my face say after that dreaded 
day was half over ? ” 

“ Why,” replied Dunallan, “ its language was very pleasing 
tome. It vsaid, ‘Is this the man I thought so hateful, ■ — this 
quiet, not very selfish, at leasf good sort of a harmless crea- 
ture ? ’ ” 

“ Ob, no, no,” interrupted Catharine, still laughing. 

“ AVhat then ? ” asked Dunallan, laughing also. 

“ Oh, it was you who were reading. I did not promise to 
put you right, but now that you have shown me you can be 
wrong, I think you must go no farther.” 


308 


DUNALLAN ; OK, 


“ Then, my Catharine, shall I tell you what I suffered when 
I could no longer think you the ingenuous, artless being I had 
supposed, so easily understood, so sweetly undisguised? No, 
I will not. You can easily guess how dreadful the idea must 
have been to me, that I had been the means of forcing. you 
into a situation where you were tempted to deceive both me 
and yourself. That I had not only made you unhappy, but 
exposed you to all the danger to be dreaded from the plausible 
sophistry of an insidious destroyer, aided by your own disap- 
pointed affections. But I will not cloud this happy day by 
recalling such dreadful ideas, such, to me, most just, but 
agonizing retribution.” 

The day, however, could not long remain unclouded. As 
the hour drew nearer at which they must separate, Catharine 
became every instant more sad, and Dunallan also seemed 
overpowered: but it was absolutely necessary he should pro- 
ceed to London, and he had left himself so little time, that it 
was now impossible Catharine could accompany him. At last 
they turned into a road from whence was seen, within a short 
distance, Edinburgh and its surrounding hills. 

“ You will not forget to think of me, then, at those hours we 
have agreed upon, my Catharine ? ” said Dunallan. 

“Forget, Dunallan?” she burst into tears. 

Dunallan struggled to overcome his own softness. “ We shall, 
1 trust, my love, meet again in less than a fortnight. We know 
in whom we trust when we feel the loneliness and emptiness of 
heart which separation brings, let us remember He is present 
with us both. This thought will unite us at least in soul.” 
Dunallan continued attempting to support Catharine’s drooping 
spirits, until at last they entered the town, and almost the next 
minute, the square in which Mrs. Melville resided. 

“ My Catharine, may God bless and be ever near you.” 

Catharine clasped his hand in both of hers. 

“ You will remember your promise, Dunallan ; you will seek 
no explanation ; you will not see that wicked St. Clair.” 

“ I will not, my love, seek to meet him. I do not wish to see 
him. I need no explanation. You will write very soon, my 
Catharine, very frequently.” 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


309 


‘‘ Oh, yes ; and you too, Dunallan.” 

The carriage stopped. 

“ God bless you, my beloved Catharine. Farewell.” 

“ Farewell, my dear Dunallan.” 

The door of Mrs. Melville'’s house was open, and she herself 
stood upon the steps. Dunallan handed, or rather lifted Catha- 
rine out. 

“ Catharine must make my excuse to you, my dear Mrs. Mel- 
ville,” said he ; again pressed Catharine’s hand in his — hurried 
into the carriage, and was soon out of sight. 

Catharine’s heart sunk. She suffered Mrs. Melville to lead 
her into the house, but her thoughts still followed Dunallan. 

Elizabeth looked in her expre>ssive countenance, and said, 

smiling, “ Poor friendship ! how it must yield to mighty , 

what shall I call it, Catharine ? ” 

Catharine threw her arms around her friend. “ What you 
please, my own Elizabeth, veneration, esteem.” 

‘‘ But not love,” Avhispered Elizabeth. 

“ Are you jealous, my Elizabeth ? ” 

‘‘ No, my dear Catharine ! I wish fi’om my soul your present 
feelings may increase. I believe Mr. Dunallan deserves the 
Avarrnest affection you can bestow.” 

“ He does indeed, Elizabeth. I have discovered this after 
3delding to every prejudice against him till it was no longer pos- 
sible. You, Elizabeth, were always more just.” 

Sad recollections soon began to crowd on Catharine’s memory. 
She had not before seen Elizabeth since her father’s death ; and 
all its mournful circumstances, with the remembrance of his 
affection for her friend, formed the subject of a long and 
interesting conversation. Mr. Melville was on that day engaged 
out, for which he had requested his wife to apologize to Catharine, 
saying, at the same time, that he believed he would not be 
regretted^ but only saved the pain of finding himself an intruder 
even with his wife. Catharine felt relieved on hearing she 
should only see Elizabeth for some hours. 

“ I have much to learn from you, dearest Catharine,” said 
h'Jlzabeth, after she liad made every inquiry respecting the last 


310 


DUN ALL AN; OR, 


moments of her beloved uncle, and wept with Catharine over 
the mournful account. “ When I left you last, Catharine, I was 
afraid of saying a word when you and Mr. Dunallan were both 
present, lest I should annoy either of you, and somehow you 
never were asunder ; yet both so much on the alarm : Mr 
Dunallan so cold and formally polite in his manner, while his 
expressive, and then melancholy countenance, told the real state 
of his feelings ; and you, Catharine, so gentle, so submissive, so 
lowly in your manner to him, so anxious to oblige ; in short, 
so completely the reverse of what you had been when I had 
formerly seen you together. Then every turn of your counte- 
nance expressed the most marked dislike, or even scorn.” 

“ Oh, Elizabeth, how foolish was I then ; how blind ! Had 
you only seen my heart on the evening of tliat dreaded day on 
which we parted, my marriage day. I dare say no human 
being’s feelings Were ever so suddenly, so completely changed. 
On that evening, when 1 saw him received by his own family 
w’ith such unbounded joy ; when I saw how he was loved by 
all of them ; when he read and prayed so impressively ! Oh ! 
I shall never forget my feelings then.’* 

“ And now, Catharine, you have come on the very subject 
I wish most particularly to converse with you upon,” said Eliz- 
abeth, drawing, her chair, and putting her face closer to Cath- 
arine’s, “ I did not wish to lead your mind to any thing so 
gloomy when I last saw you ; but have you really, my dear 
friend, adopted Mr. Dunallan’s religious opinions ? ” 

“ I have to ask you too, Elizabeth,” replied Catharine, 
smiling, “ why you have so studiously avoided answering those 
parts of my letters in which I attempted to lead you into this 
subject ? ” 

“ Because,” replied Elizabeth, “ I confess it grieved me to 
see that your mind had been so soon, so easily perverted ; yet 
} oil know I do not like to write such strong and plain things. 
I determined never to enter on the subject with you on paper, 
because I know there is great pleasure in discovering arguments 
in favor of opinions held by those we love. I trusted a little 
to the influence I might have in convei-sation, wheji 1 could see 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


311 


your feelings, but not in the least to any I should have by 
Avriting.” 

“ Well, hdizabeth, I am ready to meet you in conversation, 
though I do not think your excuse a very good one, for neglect- 
ing what I assure you cost me a great deal of trouble and thought 
to write, just because I feared you might disagree with me.” 

“ And I certainly do, my dear Catharine. Could any one 
have a greater contempt for those opinions than you yourself 
had, my dearest friend, before you so completely changed your 
feelings towards Mr. Dunallan ? ” 

‘‘ Because, my Elizabeth, I condemned them in perfect igno- 
rance of what they were. I- allow your inference, hoAvcA^er. 
It certainly was ray esteem for Mr. Dunallan that first led me 
to think more favorably of his opinions. But I have now 
learned that those opinions must be loved for their own sakes, or 
they have neither value nor influence on those who adopt them. 
But what, my Elizabeth, is so disliked by you in ray religious 
sentiments ? ” 

For one thing, dear Catharine, those who adopt them be- 
come so ridiculously singular. I shall just give you an instance. 
I was at a party last Saturday evening, where there were many 
young people, and among them, one young man of rank, who, 
I was informed, was a saint. I at the same time was told he 
was very stupid. His countenance, I thought, hoAvever, was 
both pleasing and intelligent ; and I felt inclined to judge faA'or- 
ably of him. I happened to be near him in a crowded part of 
the room, when, by appealing to his watch, which he had been 
stealing several looks at before, he discovered that it was twelve 
o’clock. He immediately took leave of the party Avith Avhoni 
he had been, and who, notAvithstanding his stupidity and saint- 
ship, I must allow, seemed very anxious to detain him. ‘ Pray, 
my lord, do not go yet,’ Avas echoed from the Avhole party ; and 
the mother of tAvo of the young ladies said in her most Avinning 
voice and manner, that he really must oblige her by remaining 
half an hour longer, unless he had some other and more agree- 
able engagement. He became very confused, and blushing up 
to the ears, stammered out, ‘ I find that it is now Sunday morning. 


312 


DUNALLAN ; OK, 


madam: I do not think I am properly employed for that day, 
and must therefore entreat you to excuse me.’ ” 

“ Good young man ! ” exclaimed Catharine, her eyes glis- 
tening. 

“ My dear Catharine, is it possible you can admire such a 
parade of religion ! ” 

“ I do not admire parade, Elizabeth, and I think it would 
have been better, perhaps, had your ‘ young saint ’ left the party 
sooner, and have avoided this explanation. Yet I think that 
wliat you regard as parade, was probably a species of martyr- 
dom to him, which' he forced himself to undergo rather than 
shrink from avowing his principles, rather than deny what 
master he served.” 

“ Oh, Catharine, how can you defend such absurdity ? What, 
harm could there have been conversing another half hour even 
on Sunday ? ” 

“ I think I can discover harm in having such late parties on 
Saturday night, my dear Elizabeth, and therefore equal harm 
in attending them. You are kept up late yourself, and conse- 
quently must be late next morning, perhaps too late to go to 
church in the early part of the day. Your servants must be 
late ; besides that they at least must break the plain command- 
ments of Heaven, for they must necessarily do a great deal of 
work on Sunday which they ought not to be obliged to do : and, 
ind.'cd, I think the spirit of the commandment at least is broken 
through also ; for can any one return from a gay party late on 
Saturday, or rather early on Sunday, in a right state of. mind 
for keeping the sacred day holy ? I am sure I could not.” 

“ But this is the. very thing, Catharine. You get such 
gloomy, dismal notions about every thing. Sunday was surely 
intended for a day of rest and happiness, not of melancholy 
deprivations. I should like to know how you spent your 
Sunday at Arnmore. I suppose Mrs. Oswald would insist on 
every thing going on exactly as when Mr. Dunallan was at home.” 

“ At least I did,” replied Catharine, smiling, “ for Mrs. Oswald 
would take the lead in nothing.” 

“ You, my Catharine ? you would be sadly at a loss.” 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


313 


“Mrs. Oswald willingly assisted me, and -told me exactly 
what had been Mr. Dunallan’s wishes and her own.” '> ' 

“Well, dear Catharine?” 

“Well, Elizabeth, I dare say you Avill think we were very 
gloomy. Our hours at Arnmore are always early. On Sunday 
we were called half an hour earlier than usual, because the 
parish church is rather distant. We met on that day at eight 
o’clock to prayers. The servants were ordered to have every , 
thing done on Saturday, to prevent any unnecessary v'ork on 
Sunday ; and all were ordered to assemble, ready dressed for 
church, when we met at prayers. This served two purposes ; 
it prevented much time being spent in dressing, and any improper 
finery, at least in some degree. After prayers and breakfast, 
it was time for the servants who walked, to set out for church, 
which they every one did except an old woman, who could not 
walk - so far ; and those few servants, who were absolutely 
necessary, returaed home after the morning church, and this 
they did by turns. Mrs. Oswald, the children, and I, and 
sometimes the old woman I mentioned, when she was able, went 
in the carriage. Dr. Angus, our clergyman, is a most excellent 
man, so that going to hear him preach was a source of real 
pleasure and improvement to me. All the servants sat near 
us in church, and I used to be greatly pleased with their attentive, 
and even devout appearance ; but, indeed, Dunallan had taken 
so much pains with them, they must have been very insensible 
had they not at least wished for information. When church 
W'as over, every one returned home. No servant was allowed 
to visit on Sunday. It had been Mr. Dunal Ian’s custom 'to 
assemble the men servants in the evening, to instruct and 
converse with them. In his absence, they of themselves 
requested the steward to read to them, which he did. He is an 
excellent and sensible man. Mrs.. OsAvald and I divided the 
female servants. She took the elder ones, while I assembled 
the young ones in my apartment ; and I have found the greatest 
satisfaction in doing this. We afterwards again assembled to 
prayers, and thus finished the day.” 

Elizabeth sighed, and continued thoughtful for a few moments. 

27 


314 


DUNALLAN ; OR, 


^ Now tell me, Elizabeth,” said Catharine, how you spend 
Sunday, since you have been mistress of a family ? ” 

You will think us sad heathens,” replied Elizabeth. 

“ Let me hear,” said Catharine, smiling. 

“Well, we are always late* on that morning, poor Philip has 
so much to say to me. We sometimes go to church in the 
morning, and always in the evening. As to my servants, I 
really do not know what becomes of them. They go out by turns 
which they settle among thepaselves, I believe ; and they have 
a general order to be at home by nine o’clock ; but as I spend 
Sunday generally with my mother, I really know very little 
about them. At my mother’s, we sometimes read a sermon in 
the evening. She always wishes us to do so, but is so anxious 
to see us amused and happy, she does not always urge it.” 

Catharine took Elizabeth’s hand in hers. “ My own Eliza- 
beth, can you think this fulfils the law to keep the Sabbath day 
holy ? ” 

“ Our conversation is very innocent, Catharine.” 

“ But, Elizabeth, does Heaven permit it ever to be otherwise 
on any day ? That cannot fulfil the commandment respecting 
this one.” 

“ But we are all so haj^py to meet at my mother’s, and have 
so much to talk about, I cannot think Heaven frowns on our 
affectionate and happy circle.” 

“ But why not meet on other days ? ” 

“ That is impossible. Philip is so immersed in business now, 
he has not a day to give to any one during the session, excepting 
some of those days on which he must give or go to professional 
kind of dinners.” 

“ But, Elizabeth, what day has he to prepare for eternity ?” 

Elizabeth sighed. “ Our whole lives, Catharine, must be that 
preparation day.” 

“ True. But if we have a day mercifully set apart for that 
momentous work, my Elizabeth, ought we to pass it away in 
other occupations? Is not some knowledge of the truths of 
religion necessary ? I believe that 'Mr. Melville’s profession is 
calculated highly to benefit his fellow men; but love to man is 


'KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


315 


only one part of tlie law of God, 3^ou know, my Elizabeth, and 
the second part. The first is love to God ; and can we love 
him without making ourselves acquainted with his character ? ” 

Elizabeth was silent for a moment. “ I believe you are right, 
Catharine. JFe spend too little time and thought on those sub- 
jects, and ^ou perhaps too much ; but tell me truly, is Mr. Dun- 
allan a cheerful man, or is he not rather melancholy and grave 
from his religion ? ” 

“ I appeal to yourself, Elizabeth, whether he is not at least 
singularly agreeable in society,” asked Catharine. 

“ Extremely so,” replied Elizabeth. “ I never saw any man 
with equal powers of conversation, or with more apparent sweet- 
ness of temper, and warmth of feeling ; yet when I have seen 
him, though he has nothing gloomy in his manners, he has some- 
thing unusually grave.” 

“ But when you have seen him, he has always been in rather 
painful circumstances. However, I would not characterize Mr. 
Dunallan as exactly a very cheerful man, though he has the 
power of stealing away one’s sadness more than any person I 
ever knew. The reason of this I believe is, that he guesses the 
cause, and finds means to do that away. But you are mistaken 
in supposing the grave and thoughtful cast of his character has 
been produced by religion. I believe it to b^liis natural dispo- 
sition, and that religion has, on the contrary, given a new 
motive and charm to his existence. Since I have been with 
him, I have learned his hours of solitude and study of sacred 
things ; and when I have met him after those times, I cannot 
describe to you the heavenly calmness of his countenance and 
manner, or the sweet, feeling, animated liveliness of his conver- 
sation. Ah, my Elizabeth, can the study of the divine character 
and perfections fail to improve every power of the mind, and 
every feeling of the heart ? Can communion with God fail to 
leave a peace in the soul, which rejoices the whole internal 
being, and inspires the most perfect benevolence to all around ; 
and to those most dearly loved, a warmth, and purity, and 
ardor of affection ? Ah, how pleasing ! how inexpressibly val- 
uable!” 


316 


DUNALLAN; OR, 


% 

My own Catharine,” said Elizabeth, “ what an enthusiast yon 
are become I I feel, too, that you would soon infect me, though 
I scarcely know what you mean. But there is Melville’s ring 
at the door.” Elizabeth started up, and flew to meet him. “ I 
shall tell him you are come, Catharine.” 

Catharine was not quite so much delighted with the interrup- 
tion as Elizabeth was. She could still have talked for hours of 
Dunallan. Even Elizabeth’s Imsband could scarcely, at this 
moment, excite her interest. Elizabeth returned into the room 
with him, her countenance betraying her anxiety that he and 
Catharine should confirm all she had said of both. Melville’s 
appearance was very j^leasing, and conveyed an impression of 
much talent, from the fire of his dark eyes, and the lively cast 
of his whole countenance. His tall and slight figure, and ani- 
mated gestures when he spoke, rather added to this. Catharine 
was extremely pleased with his appearance and manner. He 
also seemed to find her as amiable as Elizabeth had described 
her to be. Elizabeth’s countenance beamed with pleasure ; but, 
as the conversation became more general, Catharine’s sadness 
returned. Her thoughts continually followed Dunallan, travel- 
ling in solitude ; and she felt happy when the hour arrived to 
separate for the night. 

Elizabeth, however, followed her to her apartment. Catha- 
rine looked smilingly in her face. 

“ Now, Elizabeth, you want to know what I think of Mr. 
Melville?” 

“ Well, Catharine, what do you think of him? ” 

“ I tliink he is almost as handsome as Mr. Dunallan.” 

Almost! Well that is a great deal from you. And his 
manners, are they almost as pleasing ? ” 

“ His manners are so different I cannot compare them ; but 
I think Mr. Melville very agreeable indeed.” 

“Well, I am satisfied,” replied Elizabeth. “I see Philip is 
charmed with you. Good-night. I must not keep you up 
after your fatigues of to-day.” 

Catharine, when left alone, recalled all that had that day. 
passed between herself and Dunallan. The certainty of his 


KNOAV' WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


317 


love for her was peace and delight to her heart. She now 
deeply regretted having had any reserves with him; but for 
these she might now have been saved that anxiety which she 
could not overcome, whenever the thought occurred of the pos- 
sibility of his meeting St. Clair, and of any explanation taking 
place between them. She trembled at this idea ; for she was 
convinced that St. Clair would rather seek than avoid any 
cause of quarrel. 

In this state of uneasiness she had but one resource, — to 
cast all her cares on her Almighty Protector ; and, in doing 
so, she found the. truest support and consolation. She also 
found the truth of what Dunallan had said, That the remem- 
brance of the presence of that Almighty Guardian with both, 
united them at least in soul.’" At that hour Dunallan ‘had 
promised to meet her in spirit, at ,tlie throne of mercy and 
love. The thought was soothing and delightful; it hallowed 
while it increased her affection for him ; and her anxiety 
yielded to hope and trust. After thus committing herself to 
the care of heaven, Catharine began to revolve in her own 
mind the most proper means to use, in order to obtain an 
explanation respecting her letters, and also to overcome St. 
Clair’s hatred of Dunallan, and desire of injuring him. She 
had not forgot the example of Dunallan’s mother, in leaving 
whatever she could have no power over, in the hands of Heaven, 
in humble hope and trust ; but, in this case, she felt certain of 
possessing some influence, and she could not be satisfied while 
she left untried any attempt to secure the safety of Dunallan. 
She recollected St. Clair from his boyish days, and in every 
scene, every circumstance which her memory recalled, while 
petulant, violent, and contemptuous to every one else, to her he 
had ever been gentle, feeling, and even delicate. A feeling of 
pity followed these recollections, and an earnest desire to see 
him restored to the path of rectitude at least. When she 
remembered his even fastidious sense of honor ; his abhor- 
rence of every thing low or mean ; his family pride ; -his 
haughtiness of character; she could scarcely believe herself 
right in her suspicions ; but no one else was capable of such 

27 * 


318 


DUNALLAN ; OR, 


deep-laid schemes to make Dunallan wretched, among those 
she had formerly known, neither could any being on earth, she 
believed, succeed so perfectly, from his power of imitating her 
writing. She at last determined to write herself to St. Clair, 
and to make Mrs. Oswald acquainted with her having done so. 
She hoped much from this ; though, after writing her letter 
several times over, she was still dissatisfied with its contents. 

“ To A. St. Clair, Esq. — You will be surprised to see a 
letter from me, Mr. St. Clair ; perhaps you will not be so much 
surprised to be told, that you have it in your power to add very 
much to my happiness, or, if you refuse a request I wish to 
make, to lessen that happiness very materially. I feel extreme 
reluctance, however, to make this request ; not because I feel 
unwilling to be under an obligation to you, but because I shrink 
from entering on the subject regarding which I wish to make 
this request. I shrink from putting into words what I am too 
certain I am right in believing to be true ; but I think you must 
understand me. I only wish to entreat you to put it into my 
power to convince the person to whom I am united for ever, 
that I am not unworthy of his confidence. In doing this 
explanation, no mortifying confession is asked. 1 at least wfill 
consider myself obliged. 1 only wish the return of those 
letters which expressed the real feelings of my heart to that 
person to whom they are addressed. I am confident that I 
plead for your own happiness, Mr. St. Clair, when I ask you 
to do this. I think I may also appeal to yourself whether I 
ever, in the slightest degree, gave you cause for your present 
desire to make me unhappy. You know my father’s plan to 
unite me to Mr. Dunallan almost as soon as I knew it myself 
— you knew my promise, and my determination to fulfil his 
wishes, whatever it should cost me. Have you not (indirectly 
at least) praised my filial devotion, as you called it ? And yet 
you wish to render me unhappy and despised, because I per- 
severed in doing what you yourself approved ! You wish to 
subject me to the most painful and degrading of all suspicions ! 
You wish me to live oppressed with the feeling that I must 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


319 


appear deserving of those suspicions ? Can it be possible that 
-this kind of power over my happiness can give you any pleas- 
ure? Can you recollect how you have obtained it, and not 
long for the power to free yourself from it ! I think I know ' 
you sufficiently to be certain, that you will never enjoy a mo- 
ment’s peace or satisfaction of mind while you are conscious 
yourself of this taint on your honor, were you even perfectly 
convinced the world would never know it. You also know me 
sufficiently, Mr, St. Clair, to be certain that I wish not inten- 
tionally to mislead you in the slightest degree. I think you 
under the influence of a very powerful passion ; but not of that 
passion which finds an excuse in almost every heart, but of 
one which finds pity or excuse nowhere, — you hate Mr. Dun- 
allan. I take the privilege of an old friend, and entreat you 
to forgive me, and for your own sake ask yourself whether I 
am wrong ? I entreat you to call to your aid those nobler and 
more generous feelings which, for a time, you have banished, 
and attempt to overcome this degrading and dangerous passion 
— degrading to you, and dangerous (I cannot help dreading) to 
him against whom you indulge it. I do not conceal from you 
my dread of his danger ; for, by thus throwing myself on your 
humanity, I feel as if I chained up your very thoughts from in- 
juring him. 

“ I shall ask Mrs. Oswald to forward this to you, as I am 
ignorant of your address, and think she will discover it more 
easy than I can, and because I wish her to know what I have 
written to you, since I must conceal it from Mr. Dunallan. . 

“ C. Dunallan.” 

After finishing this letter, Catharine retired to dream over 
the occurrences of the day. 


320 


DUNALLAN ; OR, 


■ . CHAPTER XX. 

Catharine next morning rose at her usual early hour, and 
again renewed her entreaties to Heaven for every blessing on 
Dunallan, and for improvement to herself. She had been read- 
ing for some time with composure and attention, and her 
heart raised toTieaven for guidance, when she was interrupted 
by some one tapping gently at her door. She went to un- 
bolt it. ' : 

“My dearest Catharine!” exclaimed* the happy voice of 
Helen .Graham, who rushed into the room, and clasped Catha- 
rine to her bosom. 

“ My dear Helen ! ” 

“ My beloved Catharine ! Mrs. Melville would not allow us 
to come here last night. She said we would only disturb you, 
and she must have you all to herself for one evening ; but Rose 
and I determined to come very early this morning.” 

Rose Lennox now threw her gentle arms also around Catha- 
rine. 

- . “ Rose! my dear Rose ! This is an unexpected pleasure.” 

“ My dearest Catharine, how I have longed to see yon.” 

“My sweet Rose ! My dear, kind Helen ! ” said-^ Catharine, 
kissing first the one and then the other. She then .seated lier- 
self between them, an arm around each, and looked smilingly at 
them. “Helen, you look more blooming -than ever. I sec you 
can live without me.” 

“ Oh ! indeed, Catharine, I have never ceased tliinking of 
you, and foiining plans how I should see you again, since we 
parted.” . ; a - * ' 

“ And you, Rose,” said Catharine, turning to her, “I think 
your cheek may still be compared to the blush rose, and your 
forehead to the lily of the valley, as your old admirer, Mr. 
Lovat used to say.” 

“ My dearest Catharine,” replied Rose, “ we may return all 
your compliments a thousand fold. How different are your 


know: what you judge. 


321 


looks from what they were the last morning I saw you! ...You 
were then like a marble statue, so still and pale and s^d.” < ii 
“All is different here, too^tRose,” said Catharine, putting her 
hand on her heart. I now look back to that morning as the 
time in whiclv'I secured my greatest happiness.” mn ■ 

' “ Thank heavenj dearest Catharine!” exclaimed Rdse,*^ em- 
phatically.'’-" •i': 'v,i . '-u: ■ -JC*. . : .i> 

-ii‘f:Yesv my dear 'Rose, I do ‘thank heaven ; Mr. Dunallan has 
taught me to be like you, Rose ; to desire to regard all 'events 
as- overruled by heaven for the wisest and kindest purposes.” 
a Like me!” repeated i Rose, o sighing. How can' you thus 
reproach me, Catharine?”-, * ■ f ’ ■ . r ' : 'i •• > 

Reproach you. Rose ! I mean ‘all I say.” >! ! 

“Oh! yoii are .mistaken, then, sadly mistaken. But. we have 
interrupted you, Catharine,” 'observing her Bible lying'open. 

“No, my dear’ Rose, I shall not be interrupted ; iwe shall 
finish what I was reading. I know you will like it ; arid Helen 
I am sure is too early to have read any to herself.” Catharine' 
then pressed her two 'young friends-; more closely to her, and 
read in a feeling manner a short passage of Scripture. 

“ Thank you, dear Catharine,” said Rose, when she stopped. 
“ How beautiful is that passage ! ” ' • c f urn ■ 

“Beautiful indeed ! ” replied Catharine. “ What do you think, 
Helen?”- ‘ ; ' • -:)j " Ir 

“ Really, I do not understand it.” j ’ - 

“ Because it can only be understood by the heaii:, my Helen, 
and yours is strangely shut against all religious feeling. Do 
you still prefer' Shakspeare- to the Bible, Helen ?• as you once 
avowed to me you did.” ^ ‘ 

“ And if I do, Catharine, I cannot’ change my natural taste, 
though I may conceal it.” ' 'db - - , 

“ No, no, my dear- do not conceal it. Your frankness "on 
every subject is your greatest virtue ; but it is very unaccount- 
able, that you, who are so uncommonly alive to all that is 
beautiful in creation, and humano character, and in poetry, and 
every work of man, should be ‘so dead -do the beauty and sub- 
limity of the Scriptures ; and that you should feel bo deeply 


322 


DUNALLAN; OR, 


the kindness of those who love you, and be so cold and ungrate- 
ful to the greatest love.” 

Helen reddened and remained silent. 

“ Forgive me, dear Helen,” said Catharine, kissing her cheek ; 
“ I did not mean to offend ; I am too plain in what I say ; but 
indeed I should feel very little affection for you if I did not regret 
this indifference on your part to your own happiness.” 

Helen’s eyes filled with tears ; “ you cannot offend me, Cath- 
arine, whatever you say.” 

“ I will say no more now, dear Helen ; but if you knew how 
I sometimes reproach myself for not having used the influence 
your affection for me gave me over you, to induce you to think 
and read more on that subject, you would not be displeased 
with me ; but I hear Elizabeth’s voice ; let us join her.” 

Elizabeth was coming slowly up stairs. “ So young ladies, 
this is the way you obey my matronly instructions ; you have 
disturbed my poor fatigued Catharine before she could have 
been half rested.” 

“We found her up, and reading, my dear IVIrs. Melville,” 
said Rose. 

When seated at breakfast, the little party soon became so 
gay that Catharine’s spirits began to sink. She, however, made 
an effort to join in a cheerfulness which had been chiefly pro- 
duced by pleasure at again meeting her, and which she felt 
would be checked by her grave looks. 

Helen’s usual bashfulness completely gave way to the ex- 
treme gaiety of her spirits, and Elizabeth, seated opposite to 
Melville, and next to Catharine, seemed to feel so perfectly 
happy, that she joined and promoted Helen’s mirth, while Mel- 
ville, with scarcely a smile on his own countenance, was so 
excessively amusing, and really witty, that even Rose could 
not resist his powers, and was as gay almost as Helen. Every 
time Catharine laughed, however, she felt still more and more 
depressed. The late scenes she had witnessed ; her dying 
father ; Dunallan perhaps in danger, mingled with the lightness 
of heart of those around her, so ill, that she in vain attempted 
to join in the general cheerfulness ; at last Melville seemed to 


KNOW WIIAT YOU JUDGE. 


323 


observe that her smiles were completely forced, and immediately 
gave a graver turn to the conversation. 

“Miss Lennox,” said he, “may I ask what is become of 
the poor family you were going to visit when I met you two 
days ago ? Did you find their dwelling ? ” 

“ Yes, we did,” replied Rose, “ and you never saw so wretched 
a place. Had mamma known that Miss Morven intended taking 
me to such a place, I am sure she would have objected to my 
going even with her.” 

“ Indeed,” replied Melville, “ I was so surprised at meeting 
you where I did, that I completely forgot the impertinence of 
my question, when I asked you with so little ceremony where 
you could be going. I hope you and your friend forgave 
me.” 

“ Oh quite, we were not at all surprised at the question. I was 
glad, however, that I went ; for I should never have believed 
that such wretchedness existed, had I not seen it ; though Miss 
Morven tells me she knows of cases still more miserable than 
that I witnessed.” 

“Where did you find this wretched family. Rose?” asked 
Catharine ; “ can any one assist you in comforting them ? ” 

“Yes, my dear Catharine, though I cannot tell you where 
we found them. Miss Morven took me through so many little 
lanes and by-ways, I was surprised at her remembering them ; 
and then we mounted upon a wooden staircase almost perpen- 
dicular, and some of the steps broken.. I was almost afraid*, 
and asked Miss Morven if it was not dangerous to trust our- 
selves upon them. She desired me to follow her without fear, 
and I should see the kind of beings who were obliged constantly 
to ascend and descend this unsafe ladder as I thought it. When 
we had reached the top of it, Miss Morven, who is tall, could 
not stand upright ; and it was so dark we had to feel our way 
to a door, through the crevice of which we saw the light ; and 
within which we heard a low moaning voice of one who seemed 
to be reading. ‘ We must not interrupt that voice,’ said Miss 
Morven to me in a whisper, ‘I tliink it is some one praying.’ We 
stopped for a few minutes, and easily heard, through the thin 


324 


DUNALLAN ; ORj' 


door, all that passed within. Miss Morven was right ; the voice 
was that of a person praying,; and I was greatly struck with 
the beauty and tenderness of his ideas, pronounced, to be sure, 
in the broadest accent. At last, the voice stopped, and Miss 
Morven softly opened the door, and stooped to enter. It was a 
small garret room, with a little -eky-light, just sufficient to show 
its wretchedness. At one corner there was a miserable bed 
without cui'tains, on which sat, supported by > a large bundle of 
something, for it was not even pillows, a', young woman very 
pale and thin, but with a sweet - and placid countenance. Close 
by the fire sat an ^ old woman, almost bent together, and trem- 
bling from palsy. There were several othei^people in the mis- 
erable little room^ .upon whom the light, when we entered, shone 
so dimly I scarcely perceived them. After being a little accus- 
tomed to the darkness, however, I discovered, /at another corner, 
under the sloping ceiling, a little bed of. straw, on which lay 
a, child, so emaciated, I had no idea life could have remained in 
such .a,; form. I Bending over, this poor innocent was another 
woman, whose face was almost concealed by a large shade 
drawn over her eyes.; A man, who had stepped aside on our 
entrance, and who was the person we had heard praying, soon 
after left >the room. Miss Morven addressed the w'oman in bed 
in the most gentle and compassionate tonedf voice, telling her 
she ligd been informed of the distressed situation of her family, 
and she had come -to see if she could be of : any use to them. 
The woman’s co.untenaA^ce brightened.” i , * f. . 

. ‘“You are very kind, madam. We have indeed been in- 
great distress, *but,Qod has not forsaken us. He has made our 
strength sufficient for the ffiurden he has seen ht to lay upon us. 
We have had reason to say his promises [never fail, and that it 
lias been good for us to be affiicted.’ 

“ Miss Morven expressed her pleasure at finding so much re- 
signation and thankfulness in the midst of such sufferings. 

“ The young woman then told us that the infirm old woman 
was her mother, and that till within the last year she and her 
sister .had been able to support her. The old woman here 
hiterrupted her daughter, to tell' us that this good child had left 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


325 


an excellent situation in the country, where she had been a 
servant, to come and take care of her. The mother wept as 
she spoke, and finished by saying, that it gave her a sore heart 
indeed to see her Mary laid tliere ; but she hoped she would be 
kept from repining, and might never forget the precious words, 
‘ That whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth.’ The daughter 
then told us, that about eight months ago her mother took a 
fever, which lasted so long, and. during which she required such 
constant attendance, that the daughter had to sit up part Df the 
night to ,get the work done necessary for their subsistencte ; and 
that, even with that exertion, she was often unable to procure 
the many little comforts her mother’s situation required. 'She 
had therefore been obliged to sell their little articles of dress. and 
furniture, one after another, until they were reduced to their 
present state of want. Mary had hoped that, on the recovery 
of her mother, she would be able, by continuing her exertions, 
to support her, and recover some of their things; but before 
her mother could leave her bed, poor Mary was herself seized 
with a low fever, which reduced her to extreme weakness, and 
during which, she had caught a cold that has since settled on 
her lungs, and from which, she added with perfect composure, 
the , doctor had told her she could never recover. The woman 
who sat by the sick child was Mary’s sister; her husband was 
abroad ; but they knew not whether he was alive or dead, for 
they had) not heard from him for two years. The poor woman 
bent closer over her child when - her sister told us this,' but 'said 
nothing. 

“ ‘ She brought her little boy here,’ continued Mary, ‘' when 
I was taken ill, that she might nurse us both. She ‘ worked 
hard in the day, and by -fire-light at night, to support us, till 
she is now nearly blind; and since she is no longer. able, the 
Lord has sent you, madam, to help us. At this moment there 
is not a farthing nor a morsel in the house ; and my sister’s 
two other children will be coming in directly from school, 
hungry enough, poor things. We have had one great mercy 
mingled in our cup of affliction. We have got them admitted 

28 ^ 


326 


DUNALLAN; OR, 


into a charity school, where they learn their education, and the 
fear of God.’ 

“ At this moment the children came in ; two neatly, though 
poorly clothed little girls, wdth sickly looks. Miss Morven spoke 
to them so sweetly and kindly, that they replied to her without 
any fear or shyness. The youngest of the two, however, soon 
stepped to her mother and whispered something into her ear. 
The mother shook her head, and the poor child stood beside her 
for if moment in silence, — then the tears began to trickle down 
her litfle pale cheeks, and fall on her mother’s shoulder. The 
■poor mother took the child’s hand kindly in hers, and drawing 
its little head down on her breast, gently stroked it, while she 
seemed to whisper comfort into her ear. I went to them, and 
asked Avhat was the matter with the poor little thing. 

“ ‘ Oh she will soon be better. Miss,’ said the mother. ‘ Come, 
Jessy,' say that ])retty hymn about the patient child, to the young 
lady.’ The little thing instantly looked up, and began to obey, 
but her heart was full, and she could not speak. 

“ ‘ You shall first tell me what is the matter,’ said I, drawing 
her away to a little distance. * 

“ ‘ I am only hungry,’ said the poor innocent, in such a little 
melancholy voice, ‘ but mother had nothing to give us before we 
went toithe morning school,’ and her tears redoubled.” 

“ Do not tell us any more, for heaven’s sake. Rose,” 
exclaimed Helen, attempting in vain to suppress her own tears, 
‘‘ there is nothing half so heart-breaking as the distress of chil- 
dren, poor helpless things ! ” 

“ Wait till I have finished my account of the inhabitants of 
this house before you say so,” replied Rose, “unless you are 
tired of my story,” looking around. • 

“ Oh no, oh no,” said every one. '' 

f “ My dear Rose,” said Catharine, “ you teach us Iioav sinful 
and unthankful we are in repining at our trifling misfortunes. 
To think of an absent husband, of Avhose fate one is uncertain. 
A dying child before our eyes — and another silently Aveeping 
for hunger ! — Oh ! we ought to knoAv there are such suflferings 
in the world. But go on, my dearest Rose.” 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


327 


assure you,” continued Rose, ‘‘that though I was very 
much affected by seeing this family, yet the impression they left 
on me was rather pleasing. The heavenly composure of the 
sick sister ; the gentle quietness of the other ; and thankfulness 
with which our little assistance inspired them ; the care with 
which they reared up the little girls, who (after Miss Morven 
had sent for some food, during; which time we visited another 
family on the same floor), repeated an amazing number of 
hymns and chapters of tire Bible ; and answered Miss Morven’s 
questions, to discover if they understood what they said in a 
way that surprised us all. This, in some degree, reconciled me 
to the distress of their situation ; for it proved to me the power 
of religion to give comfort in the most calamitous circumstances. 
When we left them they seemed even happy : and so grateful 
to Heaven, and felt certain that whatever they suffered in this life 
was only intended to prepare them for a better. How different 
the other family was! Before we entered their wretched abode, 
we heard the horrid sounds of scolding and a child screaming. 
Miss Morven opened the door without being observed, so great 
was the confusion within. A woman, squalid and dirty, held a 
miserable child by the arm, occasionally shaking him violently. 

“ ‘ I ’ll learn , ye, ye handless little devil — ye ’ll ken how to 
break every thing ye touch — what ha’e ye done wi’ the bottle ? * 

“ ‘ I could na’ help it, mother,’ screamed the child. 

“ ‘ Gi’e him’t weel,’ cried a man who lay stretched out in his 
clothes on a miserable filthy bed. ‘ I ’ll help ye if ye canna,’ 

‘“Ye ’ll help me ! ye had better help me to some meat for his 
stomach, lying up there for half the day when naething ails 
ye.’ 

“‘As weel lying here as working for you to drink, ye usefu’ 
wife,’ replied the man, carelessly. 

“ She turned to retort with a face of fury, but discovering ns, 
it smoothed in a moment. Miss Morven asked her if her name 
was — something, I forget what, and if she had a sick husband. 

“ ‘ Oh ay, ma’am, I ’m just the woman, and my gudeman’s 
sick very often — he is lying there at this minute sae badly he 
canna stir, and he has had nae work for a fortnight. I ’m sure 


328 


dunallan; or, > . 


I dinna ken what we ’ll do,’ and she began to whimper. ‘ Johnny, 
my man, ye maun be going to the school, — we would want any 
thing sooner, ma’am, than no gi’e him schooling.’ 

“ ‘ Are you fond of school, Johnny ? ’ said Miss Morven 
gently to the - child ; but the boy, conscious of his present 
safety, called out -ns <loud as he could, ‘I ne’er was at ony 
school,’ and then looking 'triumphantly at his mother, ran out 
of the ’room. ‘He’s a sad laddy,’ said his mother, 
quite unconcerned, ‘ he thinks naething o’ telling lies by the 
minute.’ 

“ ‘ That is sad, indeed,’ replied Miss Morven, ‘ but I think a 
little attention on your part might cure so young a child of 
any habit ; and if you allow this one to strengthen, it may not 
only hurt his future prospects in this world, but may also 
shut him out from that place where we are told “ no liars shall 
enter.”’ 

“ ‘ Oh, ay, ma’am, it ’s very true, and I ’m sure, to jJease you, 
I would take any pains, or do any thing ? ’ ' ; 

“‘To please me ! ’ repeated Miss Morven, indignantly, ‘ would 
you not ^ make this exertion for your child’s sake, or for your 
own? as a mother you’' are accountable for the faults of so 
young a child.’ ' 

“ ‘ It ’s‘ very true, ma’iim.’ 

“‘Do you go yourself, and take your child to church?’ asked 
Miss Morven. 

“ ‘ Sometimes, ma’am ; and if I had a gown, and Johnny had 
a hat and shoes, I would like very weel to gang.’ 

“ Miss Morven tried to convince her of the duty of going to 
a place of worship, to seek instruction for her soul, which 
would live for ever, although she could not make her person so 
fine as she wished ; but she seemed dead to every thing that 
did not give some immediate prospect of worldly advantage. 
During this conversation I looked round the room.v It was 
larger -and better than what we had seen the other poor family 
in ; and there was no want of furniture, though it was covered 
with filth, — indeed, the whole room was offensive in every way. 
The woman observed my eyes wandering round her dwelling 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


320 


— and slipping her hand behind her, she drew a dirty cloth 
over a piece of raw meat, which had been flung on the. large 
chest on which she sat. Miss Morven saw this, and, looking at 
me, significantly said in French, she did not believe the woman 
was in want, and soon after we took our leave. -The woman 
followed us expecting something, but Miss Morven gave her 
nothing. ’ I felt ashamed, and gave her a trifle, for which the 
woman, with am impudent nod of her vile head, wished me a 
handsome husband : and Miss Morven laughed at my reward, 
which she said I deserved for my false shame. We found 
afterwards that this was not the woman Miss Morven had 
wished to visit ; and that the husband was so good a workman 
he could make very high wages whenever he chose, and they 
had but ’the one child to support. Yet surely, Helen,” said 
Rose, “ they w^ere much more miserable than, the poor family 
who could look to heaven for comfort.” 

Helen agreed, and Mr. Melville, telling Rose that her 
stories must have kept a client of his waiting for the last hour, 
took his leave, after very particularly asking the address 
of the poor famify, in whose fate Rose had interested every 
one. ' (j 

“ Who is this Miss Morven, Rose ? ” asked Catharine. . 

■ “ She is the daughter of a Sir William Morven, who died 
abroad some years ago. She has seen a great deal of the 
world, and is extremely agreeable ^ and well informed. < She is 
much liked, and every one wishes to be acquainted with her. 
She lias two sisters younger than herself, to whom she acts 
the jiart of a mother, though she is still a young and hand- 
some woman. She is very benevolent, and spends her time 
and fortune in doing good. She is also remarkably accom- 
jilished, though she sets little value on common accomplish- 
ments ; and is courted by everybody, so mamma has no objec- 
tion to my being as much with her as I choose, though her 
opinions on religious subjects are just those mamma is so afraid 
I shall adopt.” ' ■ ' r- ' 

“ I am sure I should like Miss Morven,” said Catharine. 

“ Well,” replied Rose, her eyes brightening with pleasure, “ I 

28 * 


330 


DUN ALL AN ; OR, 


know Miss Morven wishes much to be acquainted with you*, 
and mamma is to be here by and by, to request you to meet her 
at a little party we are to have this evening.” 

“I shall have great pleasure in doing so, my dear Rose. 
You must also take me to see your poor family.” 

Mrs. Lennox arrived early in the forenoon. . 

“My dear Lady Dunallan!” exclaimed she, on entering; 
“how rejoiced I am to see you. Oh how charmingly you 
look ! ” 

Catharine had not before been addressed by her new title, 
and the paleness which followed, on her father’s being thus 
recalled to her memory, showed Mrs. Lennox that she had 
touched on wounds too recently healed to be approached by 
her. She immediately flew to twenty subjects quite uninterest- 
ing to Catharine, and at last finished by entreating her to meet 
Miss Morven, the most charming, or rather, next to Lady Dun- 
allan, the most charming she ever knew. Catharine immedi- 
ately promised to comply with her wish, and Mrs. Lennox soon 
after took leave. 

The 'evening was far advanced, when Catharine, who had 
been deeply interested in conversation with Elizabeth and 
Helen, recollected her engagement to Mrs. Lennox. “Eliza- 
beth ! ” exclaimed she, “ what shall M'e do ? we have forgot our 
engagement to Mrs. Lennox.” 

“We are not too late,” replied Elizabeth, “it cannot be nine 
o’clock.” 

“ Nine o’clock ! you at least must dress ; I shall make little 
change : but we shall not be there till near ten.” 

“ That is soon enough,” replied Elizabeth, smiling ; “ what 
country ideas you have, my Catharine ! ” 

“ But you know, Elizabeth, if there is to be a large party at 
Mrs. Lennox’s which these late hours seem to threaten, I can- 
not, I ought not to go.’’ 

“ Mrs. Lennox assured me she was to have only a few friends 
you know,” said Elizabeth ; “ she certainly would not have 
expected to see either of us at a large party.” 

When Catharine and her friends arrived at Mrs. Lennox’s 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


831 


house, however, they perceived by the numerous carriages and 
chairs which blockaded the door, that the party could not be 
small. Catharine wished to return ; but Elizabeth assuring her 
that she might come away whenever she chose, and reminding 
her of Mrs. Lennox’s aptness to take offence, her better judg- 
ment was overruled, and she allowed Mr. Melville to hand her 
from the carriage ; and after hearing “ Lady Dunallan ” an- 
nounced, she entered a room full of people. Those who had 
been within hearing of her name had their eyes eagerly bent 
towards her. Catharine felt abashed, and would have shrunk 
from the general gaze, but Mrs. Lennox immediately ap- 
proached, — 

“ My dear Lady Dunallan, what pleasure it gives me to see 
you again in my liouse, — you whom I have so long regarded 
almost as a child of my own. Allow me to introduce some 
friends of mine to you, who have long desired the happiness of 
your acquaintance.” 

“Mrs. Lennox,” said Catharine, in a low, but indignant tone 
of voice, “ I ought not to have been at such a party as this,” — 
looking at her deep mourning, — “ you have deceived me. I only 
expected to have met Miss Morven : and I must request, that 
during the short time I stay, I may be introduced to no other 
person whatever.” 

Mrs. Lennox had drawn Catharine’s arm within hers, and 
was conducting her to the other end of the room. She looked 
confounded at her reproach, — “ My dear young friend, your 
ideas on these subjects are like no one’s else now-a-days. I 
assure you no creature will think you have violated any form 
in being here, but your too scrupulous self.” 

“It is not form I regard,” replied Catharine, warmly; “but 
this scene ought to be, and is, a painful contrast to my present 
feelings. I believe, Mrs. Lennox, you do not vdsh to make me 
uncomfortable in your house. I shall be extremely so, unless 
you leave me entirely unnoticed for the half hour I shall re- 
main.” 

“ Come in here, then,” said Mrs. Lennox, much disappointed, 
and conducting Catharine into a smaller apartment, in which 


332 


dunallan; or, 


tliere were only a few people ; “ I must account to those friends 
of mine who wished to introduced to you, my dear; for my 
breach of promise, w’^hat can I say ? ” 

Say the truth,” replied Catharine. 

Rose was in this apartment, and approached with an expres- 
sion of confusion on her ingenuous countenance. 

“ Ah, Rose,” whispered Catharine, “ why did you suffer me 
to be here?” *•' 

“ My dear Catharine, I could not prevent it. Mamma has 
asked most of these people since the morning, just to meet you. 
I said I was sure you would dislike so large a party ; but 
mamma really did not believe me. But, if you remain in this 
little room, you will see very few people ; only a few card- 
players;” 

Catharine shook her head, and, retiring to a sofa in a corner 
of the apartment, she told Elizabeth that she would continue 
there until the time came at which she had ordered her carriage. 
Her heart was * so full she could scarcely suppress her tears for 
a few moments. ’ 

' Elizabeth' seated herself' on One side of Catharine, and Helen 
on the otlier ; and Melville, drawing a chair in front of them 
said, “ We have only to suppose ourselves at home, and be as 
comfortable as if we were there.” 

“My imagination cannot be so accommodating,” said Helen, 
“ only look at the party behind you, Mr. Melville.” 

Melville turned half round.’ Two very old ladies, and tw'o 
not much younger gentlemen, were seating themselves at a card- 
table, with looks of much eagerness, though the head of one of 
the ladies, and also her hands, shook from age ; and the other 
was carefully settling a paiir of spectacles on her nose before she 
began. 

“ I declare. Colonel,” said the shaking lady in a mumbling 
voice, “ I have thought of nothing since I saw you, but your 
extraordinary run of good fortune the last time we played 
together.” 

Tlie Colonel answered, with a smile of importance, “T hope, 
madam, you do not ascribe my success entirely to good for- 
tune? ” 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


333 . 


“Oh no, Colon elS^ your play - — but why, in the name of 
wonder, did you play a spade now ?” • ' • ^ 

“ 1 played a club, madam,” replied the Colonel, stiffly. ‘ * 

“ A club ! ” The old lady raised 'the disputed card to hef 
dim eyes. “I protest it is a club. The lights are ’surely ill 
arranged.” • ; . ' : ^ : i ; • 

“ I am sure a pair of spectacles, in some cases, would save a 
great deal of time,” said the other lady, rather impatiently. 

“We have lost' the odd trick by that last’ admirable card of 
yours ! ” exclaimed the Colonel, looking at his poor old partner 
with suppressed wrath. ' <: r». 

“ What could I play. Colonel ! I have not another > of the 
kind in' my whole h'and-^-:^ — ” 

“ Good heavens ! madam, why do you add to your irreparable 
mistakes, by also betrd-ying your weakness ? ” 

“I have, however, gained more tricks than you have, Colo- 
nel,” retorted the old lady, beginning to ^et warm. h -J ' 
“We have it !” exclaimed the other lady,' triumphantly, and 
snatching up the last trick. The Colonel darted a look of angry 
contempt at his fair partner, who now with much difficulty began 
to deal the cards. ' ^ r • . 1> 

Helen laughed, “ What miserable figures ! ” exclaimed she. , 
“ Miserable, indeed ! my dear Helen,” said Catharine' “ but I 
do hot feel inclined to laugh at them.” • i' > / • : i i .-i - 

“ Nor I,” ’said Melville. “ Human ' nature in so degraded a 
state, is alwuys a painful sight to me.” ■ / : . ■ .i 

“ But you are'both too severe,” said Elizabeth. “Our amuse- 
ments must, in some degree, be suited to our age. ‘ You would 
not have people, just because they are old and? infirm, give up 
all intercourse with tlie world and each other. They can no 
longer join in the pleasures of the young, — why deprive ‘them 
of what is ‘now their only means of being ajiiused and -happy in 
society?” ^ ^ j - 

“ ilappy ! ” repeated Catharine. Book at 'those four faces, 
and tell me if you really ^think they are happy.''” 

“ We\], perhaps they are not happy in your sense of the 
word,” replied Elizabeth ; “'but the passions and feelings which 


334 


DUNALLAN ; OR, 


still remain alive in them are excited ; and I believe all our 
happiness consists in some kind of excitement.” 

“ And shall we all come to this, my love ? ” asked Melville, 
looking smilingly into his wife’s face. 

“ Heaven forbid ! ” replied Elizabeth, returning his smile. 

“ But what is to prevent us ? ” asked Catharine. 

“Now, Catharine,” said Elizabeth, “what would you have 
these old people do all their long evenings ? ” 

“ I must answer you too gravely, Elizabeth, if I say what 
I really think. But what is the use of education, or religion, or 
any attempt to regulate the mind, and feelings, if we are innocent 
and safe, just before we reach the end of all our aims, in thus 
trifling, or worse than trifling, away our few remaining hours 
of preparation ? — But here comes Mrs. Lennox : see, sl>e is 
looking for us as if we were under the chair. I suppose the 
lady with her is Miss Morven.” 

“ My dear Lady Dunallan ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Lennox, “ I 
thought you had made j^our escape. Allow me to make you 
acquainted with Miss Morven.” 

Miss Morven and Catharine regarded each other with looks 
of equal pleasure. Miss Morven’s appearance was extremely 
prepossessing. 

“ Both of my most valued friends are extremely displeased 
with me this evening,” resumed Mrs. Lennox ; “ my only hope 
of making my peace is, by being able to prove that it is pos- 
sible, even at a large and mixed and late party, to meet with 
people whose friendship is very valuable. 1 .shall return soon, 
in the hope of obtaining your forgiveness,” continued Mrs. 
Lennox, “ and in the mean time, I shall farther show my pen- 
itence by inviting Miss Weston and her harp into this apart- 
ment; but do not be afraid, I shall only give her the hope of 
being introduced to you on some future evening.” Mrs. Lennox 
then hurried away. 

“ What is your objection to large parties. Miss Morven ? ” 
asked Melville, who had frequently before met with her. 

“ Indeed, Mr. Melville, it would take me a whole evening to 
tell you half of my objections ; but before I begin, let me 


f«|i 


KNOW WUAT YOU JUDGE. 


335 


ask you what benefit is to be got at them? or even what 
pleasure ? ” 

b Melville smiled : “ I do not think I can allow you to escape 
1 answering my question by asking one I shall find it so difficult 
I to meet.” 

1 “ Well,” continued Miss Morven, “ I shall try to answer 
you. I think that at a party such as this, one sees or hears 
nothing at all improving either to the mind or heart ; vanity 
and display, and at least only trifling chit chat ; then one’s 
feelings of ridicule are excited.” looking round to the card- 
table, “ where one should only feel pity : precious time is lost 
for absolutely nothing, not even amusement ; for every one 
iv tires of these crowds ; then late hours and late rising next day, 
and if you have any plan of life at all, that plan deranged ; and 
if you enter the vortex, you must do this every evening and 
every day.” 

“ No ! ” said Melville, smiling, “ that is not necessaiy. You 
really good ladies are too violently anxious to be right, I think, 

I and see more evil in some things than really exists. A man 
' with a profession like myself, must have a plan of life, and 
' must keep regular hours ; and yet there is no party at which 
you do not see many lawyers.” 

“ True, Mr. Melville, but I believe the plan of life we scru- 
^ pulous ladies wish to pursue, is not exactly of the same nature 
as that of a lawyer. It includes, and chiefly consists ih studies 
and efforts which are far more affected by such scenes, than 
the study of law can be.” 

‘ “ But then,” resumed Melville, smiling gaily, “ what would 
become of all the poor mammas without these opportunities of 
showing us their pretty daughters ? ” 

“ Well ! there you mention the only case in which I can 
; discover their use ; but that arises from a fault in the present 
■ state of society, not necessary surely; and which you gentle- 
men promote, I suppose, to protect your own hearts ; for I 
think you all agree in saying, at least, that wom<Bn appear most 
lovely, and most engaging, when most domestic.” 

“ Certainly,” replied Melville, “ and I think whatever intro- 


i 


336 


dunallan; ok, 


duced those large parties, the gentlemen, at least those who 
cannot or who do not wish to many, have greatly benefited by 
them. As for those who really desire to enter into that happy 
state, but who. wish to be in love first, the case is different. 
For my part, when I see around me so many lovely young 
faces, and slightly attired persons, I first wonder how any man 
can preserve hisi heart, and then how it is possible to lose it ; 
for after you have seen one look and smile and dimple, till 
}'our heart is going, you have only to look around you, and 
you see twenty just' as charming, and you forget the first, and 
so on for. ever.,: Now to go where there is perhaps an old 
father, who talks of nothing that has, happened within your 
recollection, and a mother who is no more modern, in any. way, 
it follows, of course, that you fall in love with the blooming 
daughter, who appears vCompletely irresistible from the con- 
trast.” 

The sound of Miss Weston’s harp now arrested the attention 
of our little party. Her voice, too, seemed charming ; but when 
loud enough to be distinctly heard, the party at the card-table 
raised, in an equal degree, their tones of peevish reproach, or 
angry retort. . j . 

“ Are you fond of music. Lady Dunallan ? ” asked Miss 
Morven. , , * . ' 

1 “ Yes L extremely so.” . n . 

“ Shalt we go nearer Miss Weston, then? for I fear we, shall 
not enjoy any harmonious sounds in this corner.” Catharine 
consented, and they approached the part of the room where 
Miss Weston sat. Slie was a plain looking girl, rather coarse 
in her figure, and appearance ; and excepting. Rose Lennox, 
who, looking very pretty and modest, stood close by her, no 
one paid her any attention. ,;rhe little apartment had nearly 
filled with people, libut they had separated into parties, and 
taUi^ed and laughed without any, regard whatever to the poor 
harp-player, who, nevertheless, continued to go through a long 
and elaborate piece with great. skill and execution. Two young 
men stood near .Rose, and attempted to draw her into conver- 
sation, but in vainj she continued politely attentive to her 


KNOAV WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


337 


mother’s gue?t, and the two gentlemen were also obliged to be- 
come patient listeners. 

, Ever^r eye was immediately fixed > on Catharine when she 
issued from her re treaty and approached to where Miss Weston 
sat, and V by degrees several people joined also as > listeners, or 
rather that they might gaze at a new face in the fashionable 
world. Catliarine, however, unconscious ^of the notice she at- 
tractedy continued to listen with pleased attention to a degree of 
skill and knowledge of music she had never before heard pos- 
sessed: by a lady. Her notice was attracted at last, -however, 
by the appearance of a lady and gentleman, who . attempted to 
enter into conversation with Miss Morven, but whom she avoided 
with , the .most marked .coldness, though Catharine thought there 
was something in their appearance strikingly noble and pleasing. 
'The; gentleman, she knew not why, reminded her,, of. Dunallan ; 
he did not exactly resemble him, but there was a something in 
his air and manner that made ther heart beat by recalling him. 
The lady was not young, but -Catharine thought she had never 
before seen so beautiful a countenance, or so graceful a form 
Her attention ‘ became completely occupied by the strangers ; 
their eyes, too, were constantly turned towards her. 

At last Miss Weston’s piece came to a close. Mrs. Lennox 
loaded her with flattery and thanks. When Miss Weston had 
retired among her young friends, IMrs. Lennox said, in a loud 
whisper to Miss Morven, 

1 “ Ah ! if you heard Lady Dunallan’s harp ! — but I must not 
hope to-night to ’■ i . 

■“ Certainly not,” interrupted Catharine, with- displeasure. 

( Mrs. Lennox turned to the beautiful stranger: “ Lady Fitz- 
henry, I fear I shall not be able to gratify you asi I rashly 
promised.” _ . - ii • J 

‘ Lady Fitzhenry smiled with the most captivating sweetness. 
“ The reason you have already given us, Mrs. Lennox, is too 
good, too amiable for me even to desire to overcome it for my 
own gratification.” ' - -i * < 

‘‘I had promised, my dear Lady Dunallan,” resumed Mrs. 
Lennox, “ that I should use all the little influence I possessed 

29 


838 


i:»UNALLAN ; OR, 


with you, to induce you to sing a Scotch song with all its native; 
unadorned sweetness.” 

Catharine blushed deeply ; every eye was fixed upon her. 
“ I believe,” said she, looking at the stranger, “ I should not save 
Mrs. Lennox’s breach of promise by complying with her 
wish.” 

Miss Morven, who stood by Catharine, gently touched her 
arm. Catharine turned to her. Miss Morven stepped past 
her, and looked at the music-book which was open on the stand, 
then turning her face to Catharine, and thus concealing it from 
the strangers, 

“ You wished to know whose music that was,” said she ; then, 
as she passed into her former place, she said in a low voice, 
“ don’t sing.” 

Catharine was surprised ; however, on Mrs. Lennox again 
hinting her wish, she positively declined singing. 

Lady Fitzhenry looked disappointed, and Catharine could 
not resist saying to her, as she retired from the circle with Miss 
Morven, 

“ I hope I shall at some other time have it in my power to 
prove how happy I should be to oblige you.” 

Lady Fitzhenry returned her thanks in the most graceful 
manner, from which Miss Morven turned away with apparent 
disgust. 

Catharine then took leave of Mrs. Lennox and Rose, and 
quitted the apartment — but not before she heard Lady Fitzhenry 
say, with a deep sigh to the gentleman who accompanied her, 
and on whose arm she leaned, “ she is indei d very charming.” 

When Catharine was seated in the carriage with her own 
party and Miss Morven, who had consented that they should 
carry her home, Miss Morven said : 

“ I have come into your carriage. Lady Dunallan, to entreat 
your forgiveness, and to explain my reasons for so soon having 
taken the privilege of a friend.” 

“ I beg you will only tell me who that charming looking 
couple are,” replied Catharine, “ and why they seem to possess 
so little of your esteem ? ” 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


339 


“ Because I know them to be as worthless as they are singu- 
larly charming,” replied Miss Morven. “ Worthless ! and how 
could Mrs. Lennox have them at her house ? ” 

“ Charity, my dear Lady Dunallan,” said Melville, “ nobody 
is certain of their riiisdeeds : but suspicions are strong against 
them.” 

“ I never saw so handsome a man,” exclaimed Helen : “ I 
declare he looked like a prince, or a king, compared to the other 
gentlemen.” 

“ We are greatly flattered, Miss Graham,” said Melville. 

“ But who are tliey ? ” asked Catharine. 

“ The gentleman’s name is Sir Henry Moncton,” replied Miss 
Morven. .“ He has long openly admired Lady Fitzhenry, 
although he is a married man. Poor Lady Moncton stays 
quietly at home with her children, while this cruel husband at- 
tends Lady Fitzhenry with the most devoted attention where- 
ever she goes. Lady Fitzhenry’s husband is excessively worth- 
less every w^ay, and quite regardless of the reputation of his 
wife, who, though she does not exactly reside with Sir Henry, is 
never seen without him. She is very literary, and I believe 
highly accomplished in everyway. Slie wishes to go abroad, 
but as that is almost impossible at present, she is to remain here 
for a short time. I am peculiarly alive to the greatness of her 
guilt; perhaps because some members of her family are my 
most intimate friends ; and I know her conduct has thrown a 
dark cloud over their happiest days ; particularly over those of 
her eldest brother, General Hartford, who has left no effort un- 
tried which kindness could dictate, to reclaim her.” 

It was fortunate for Catharine that there was no light to betray 
the emotion which the last part of Miss Morven’s speech occa- 
sioned ; and w'hen she added, “ could 1 suffer you. Lady Dun- 
allan, to be charmed into doing any thing you disapproved, by 
such a woman ? ” Catharine replied with so much emotion : 

“ I am more obliged to you than I have words to express,” 
that Elizabeth could not help laughing. 

“ Surely, my dear Catharine,” said she, “ you were in no 
danger of being injured by this amiable person.” 


340 


DUNALLAN ; OR,- 

Catharine remained silent till the carriage stopped. Her 
thoughts dwelt on what she had heai’d. She must have seen 
Dunallan’s Aspasial Did he know how guilty she still was? 
What a dark cloud must the knowledge of her guilt throw over 
his happiest days ! ‘ • 

When the carriage stopped, Catharine took leave of Miss iVIor- 
ven, after obtaining her j)romise to spend a part of next day 
with her and Elizabeth. 

After a few minutes’ conversation with Elizabeth, Catharine 
retired to her apartment. It was past the hour at which she 
had promised to meet Dunallan in the most sacred of alt duties. 
She felt wrong and unkind and unhappy. The busy scene she 
had left — Lady Fitzhenry — all swam before her eyes, and led 
away her thoughts, when she wished to collect them in devotion. 
Before she was aware, her attempt to examine her own heart, 
as she always wished to do before she closed the day, gave way 
to an attempt to discover why Sir Henry Moncton so greatly 
resembled Dunallan! She supposed their manners had been 
^formed in the same society. She again attempted to perform 
those duties which generally gave her satisfaction — sometimes 
delight — but she could not succeed, and, bursting into tears, she 
implored the mercy of Heaven for herself, and for Dunallan, and 
then retired to sleep, at first broken and disturbed, but at length 
tranquil and profound. ' ' • 



■ : ' • i . roiuj* ‘ ; • u' 1 ' •• ’ 

CHAPTER XXL 

Next morning, 'Catharine, with more self-command, reviewed 
the events of the preceding evening, and the manner in whicli 
she had spent it. She knew that Sitcli was the usual way of 
s[)ending time by people in her situation. She was ignorant 'of 
Dunallan’s opinion on the subject ; but she thought it impossible 
that he should approve of -what, even to her, appeared incon- 
sistent rvdth that regulation of thought and spirit — that separation 
from the follies and vices of the Avorld, which she believed was 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


341 


required in Scripture. When she recalled Mrs. Lennox’s anxious 
countenance, her gross flattery, and, above all, her want of 
principle, which could allow fashion so to blind her, — which 
could sufler a’ mother to introduce such people as Sir Henry 
Moncton and Lady Fitzhenry to the acquaintance of a son and 
daughter — people who seemed formed to make vice seducing, 
she shuddered at the idea of ever being so infatuated ; “ and 
yet,” thought she, “ what reason have I to imagine that I should, 
escape the errors that such a life leads to if I pursue it ? ” She 
tried to avoid thinking of Lady Fitzhenry. All regarding her 
was painful. ' What a continued source of misery must her life 
of guilt be to Dunallan ! Never did she feel so thankful for that 
mercy which had snatched him from ruin ! This morning she 
expected a letter from him, and with mixed feelings awaited its 
arrival. At last she received it,* just as she expected to be 
summoned to breakfast. It was the first in which he had ven- 
tured to indulge in expressions of tenderness, and she soon 
forgot that Aspasia, or any other being, existed in the world but 
him. • » 

“ My dear Dunallan ; my guide, my friend, my husband ! ” 
exclaimed she at last, in a low tone of voice. Again she read 
the concluding expressions. r 

“ And now I' must say adieu, my own Catharine, and again 
continue this journey, which every moment carries me fuither 
from her who is now the first earthly Charm of my existence. 
Your dear idea brings to me alb that is lovely and lovable on 
earth; and more- than earth can claim — a sister spirit, with 
whom, after enjoying as much dear interCoui*se 'as is possible im 
this imperfect state of existence, I hope to live for ever. Adieu, 
my love. To the tender, care, the only wise care, of that 
almighty ever present Friend, in whom you believe and trust, to 
him, in humble confidence, I now commend my beloved wife. 
How sweet, my Catharine, are the ideas associated with this 
dearest of appellations ! but I must not trust myself ; but again 
say that hateful little word that contains so much painful 
meaning, ‘ adieu ! ’ That we may never again say it, is the 
earnest prayer of your Dunallan.” .^ - 


29 * 


342 


DUNALLAN J OR, 


“ May we indeed never again say i that painful word ! ” sighed 
Catharine. She then sunk into a sweet and pleasing dream, 
from which she was awakened by the entrance of Elizabeth. 

“ Oh Catharine ! that blush tells whose letter has detained 
you so late this morning.” 

“ Late ! Elizabeth, I did not know that it was late.” 

“ It is very late, however, my dear ; and Martin, after several 
attempts to induce you to join us, to which she says you 
always assented, has at last given up her efforts, I suppose in 
despair.” 

“ I believe I did hear her say something about breakfast,’but 
I soon forgot. Am I indeed very late ? ” 

“ So late that Melville has gone out in despair of seeing you, 
and Miss Morven has been here for an hour.” 

“ Dear Elizabeth, how could you allow me ? ” 

Catharine hurried down stairs, and with many conscious 
blushes, apologized to Miss Morven for her lateness. 

“ I do not think you have suffered from your dissipation of 
last night, Lady Dunallan,” said Miss Morven, smiling. 

Catharine again blushed, conscious of the real cause of her 
glowing looks. “ One evening, I suppose, may be productive 
of no evil consequences,” replied she ; “ but I do earnestly 
hope my lot may never make it necessary for me to spend my 
evenings in such a crowd, such a tiresome bustle. I have poor 
Mrs. Lennox’s face still before me — so busy, so dissatisfied, 
and uneasy. Pray, Miss Morven, is that the usual happy state 
of the lady of the house on such occasions ? ” “ Oh no,” 

replied Miss Morven, “ poor Mrs. Lennox is, I see, quite new to 
such kind of parties ; and supposes it necessary that every one 
should be amused and attended to by herself, as she must do in 
the country when her highland neighbors visit her. A really 
fashionable lady would be greatly amused with poor Mrs. Lennox, 
toiling from card-table to harp player, and stopping a moment 
near each little party, to ascertain whether they are enjoying 
themselves; and then bustling away to~ procure unwilling 
partners for the poor neglected misses, who sit drooping in the 
dancing-room. But,” added Miss Morven, “it is impossible 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


343 


to judge for others. There must be some charm in those large 
parties, to the people who so regularly attend them, which to 
me is quite uncomfortable ; yet it is too uncharitable to think 
that all who spend evening after evening in such scenes, do so 
either from want of mind or principle.” 

“ I think,” said Elizabeth, “ I could easily discover good 
motives for the presence of many of those I meet at such 
parties. I shall begin with mySelf. I know Melville would 
never go if I did not, because he tires to death ; yet it is proper 
that a man in his profession should both acquire new acquaint- 
ances, and retain those he has. I do not see how this is possible, 
unless one mixes in society in the only way one can ; and I 
really do not feel any bad consequences from it. Then mothers, 
who have grown up daughters to dispose of, I need not say 
how impossible it would be for them, in the present state of 
society, to accomplish this, were they to banish themselves from 
such parties. Then young ladies, and young gentlemen, natu- 
rally and innocently love each other’s society wherever they 
can find it. I really am at a loss to discover what you find so 
improper in these parties. Miss Morven. You, too, Catharine, 
seem to regard them as dangerous to every thing good.” 

“ I certainly do feel,” replied Catharine, “ that they would 
be dangerous to every thing in myself at least.” 

“ But why, dear Catharine ? ” asked Elizabeth. 

Because,” replied Catharine, “ they seem to me quite in- 
consistent with that state of mind and feeling which,-! think, we 
are required by Scripture to cultivate ^ and which, when in any 
degree attained, is so delightful, I should dread losing it more 
than any other earthly blessing.” 

“ But I know of no feeling, Catharine, recommended in Scrip- 
ture, which Avould be injured by witnessing our fellow-creatures 
amused and happy.” 

“ I think Scripture requires us, for our own improvement, my 
dear Elizabeth, to have the presence of our Creator, and our 
duty to him so constantly uppermost in our thoughts, that what- 
ever we do, or think, or say, should be guided by a desire to 
please him, and to honor him as far as such creatures can. Now, 


344 


DUNALLAN ; OR, 


what did we witness last night calculated to produce such a state 
of feeling? On the contrary, did t we not derive our amusement 
partly from the follies of others ? Can any one pretend to say 
that the spirit which prevailed last night was the spirit of relig- 
ion ? You smile, Elizabeth, at the idea; but can it be right to 
spend our time in society which is so governed by other princi- 
ples, that the very idea of religion having any influence, excites 
a smile of ridicule ? ” /. 

“ But still, Catharine, there is nothing contrary to the spirit 
of religion.” 

“ Not even in the presence of such people as Sir Henry 
Moncton and Lady Fitzhenry ? ” asked Miss Morven, smil- 
ing. .ii ^ 

“ But there is lio necessity for having such people at our par- 
ties,” replied Elizabeth, “ and many who frequently have such 
parties, would be quite as scrupulous in that respect as the very 
strictest methodist could be.” 

‘‘Methodist!” repeated Catharine. 

“ Yes, my dearest Catharine. You are not aware of it, but 
your sentiments are becoming quite methodistical.” 

“What do you mean by ‘ methodistical ,’ j my dear Eiiza- 
beth?” 

“ I mean that narrow uncharitable spirit which limits all 
goodness to a few strict, and, to people’ who live in the world, 
impractk;able rules ; such as never going to a . party of more 
than a few religious people^ or at least mostly religious — never 
stirringiout on Sunday unless to go half a dozen times to hear 
some canting preacher -r- never opening your, mouth but to 
pronounce some religious sentence; and holding in utter con- 
tempt all the pleasures derived from the cultivation of taste, or 
literature, or whatever can embellish or charm in life, — indeed, 
every thing but the contemptible pursuits of the self-satisfied 
sect.” 

Catharine smiled ; “ My dear Elizabeth, I am not conscious 
of being guilty of any of the crimes you have mentioned.” 

“Nor would those who are dignified by the epithet of meth- 
odist, jrecognize themselves in Mrs. Melville’s character of them,” 
said Miss Morven. with some severitv. 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


345 > 


Elizabeth reddened, ‘‘I speak from report,” said she, I am 
not myself acquainted with any methodist.” 

“ 'i es, you are,” replied Miss Morven, smiling, “ unless you 
mean to strike me off the list of your acquaintances;” 

. “ You, my dear Miss Morven ! ” replied Elizabeth, blushing 
deeply, “ I have heard you accused of this peculiarity I con- 
fess, but I always defended you with all the eloquence I pos- 
sessed.” • ' • ^ . • 1 ) i 

“ I, however, deserve' the contemptuous appellation, in the 
sense it is usually applied. I hope, at the day of reckoning, I 
may only* be found among those wlio have borne it through lives 
that ought to have proved the perfection of any principles'.' c But 
now, my dear Mrs. Melville, I entreat you will be equally frank 
wnth me, and answer me, whether you think it can be possible 
to be too anxious to jdease the Divine Being ?” 

“ Certainly not.” 

“ Then, if we are convinced, by the way we understand Scrip- 
ture, that a certain line of thoughts, and feelings, and actions, 
are alone pleasing to him, are we wrong in- pursuing that course, 
however unlike it may be to that of others ? ” • 

“ Assuredly not.” ‘ ■ 

“ Well, my dear Mrs. Melville, this is all Ave do, and Avhy is 
this so disagreeable ? ” 

“ I did not say any thing Miss Morven did was disagreeable,” 
replied Elizabeth, smiling. 

“ No; but you seemed to think Lady Dunallan Avould become 
much less amiable by adopting the opinions of those who are 
called methodists, and I only heard her express ' what I have 
just said ; an earnest desire to regulate her thoughts and feelings 
so as to please her God.” ■ 

Elizabeth hesitated — and then said, “I perhaps felt so because 
Catharine, instead of replying to my question, how it Avas possi- 
ble to live in the world,' without taking society as Ave found it, 
began talking- religiously, I do not knoAV hoAv.” 

“ I do not recollect what I said, dear Elizabeth,’’ said Catha- 
rine, “but perhaps I did not feel that I could ansAver your 
question. I certainly do not see how you can otherwise be in' 


846 


dunallan; or, 


Bociety: but I cannot argue this subject with you on these 
grounds. If it is absolutely necessary for Mr. Melville to court 
the world, he must do it, but I cannot perceive this necessity, — yet 
do not suppose that I think Mr. Melville should not mix in society. 
I do not intend by any means to say so. I mean only to say, 
that I think I should myself be injured by doing so very often ; 
and that I can feel the necessity, the absolute necessity of only 
one thing, either for myself or others, which is, to learn the way 
of salvation for our souls, for ‘ What shall we profit, if we 
gain the whole world, and lose them ? ’ ” 

“ True, niy dear Catharine, I believe that miserable old party 
we saw at the card-table last night would have agreed with you 
thus far, though they might differ with you as to what is neces- 
sary to secure this safety to the soul. I believe, my dear Cath- 
arine, we must not expect all to travel on the same road to hea- 
ven; but let us leave this subject — it is new, and very painful 
to me to differ from you,” added Elizabeth, tears starting into 
her eyes as she spoke. “If you please, we shall avoid this 
subject for the future.” Catharine took her hand affectionately 
in hers, “ I cannot promise this, my own Elizabeth, I love you 
too dearly ; but for a few days I shall avoid it, if you will 
promise to think seriously of what I am going to ask 
you.” 

“ I will, Catharine.” 

“Well, my Elizabeth, do you think it possible that it could be 
necessary for the Son of God himself to leave his glory, and 
veil himself in the human form, and live on earth so many 
years, suffering grief and contempt, and at last an ignominious 
and agonizing death, if the salvation of our souls, for which he 
endured all this, is a matter of so little moment that we may 
venture to trifle or delay attending to it ? Do you think our 
Saviour did not mean what he said, when he assured his hear- 
ers that, ‘ Strait is the gate, and narrow is the way which leadeth 
to everlasting life, and few there be that find it ? ^ Will you 
think of this, and answer me, Elizabeth ? ” 

“ I will, my dear Catharine,” replied Elizabeth very gravely, 
and becoming pale on seeing the extreme earnestness of Catha- 
rine’s looks and manner. 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


847 


Catharine kissed her cheek tenderly. 

After a short pause, Elizabeth asked how they should spend 
the day ? 

“You shall decide, my dear Elizabeth,” said Catharine; 
“ Perhaps, if Miss Morven is disengaged she will join our little 
party in the evening ; you know my aunt and cousins are to be 
with us.” 

Miss Morven -immediately consented. 

“ The fii-st thing we do must be to leave our cards at Mrs. 
Lennox’s door, however,” said Elizabeth. 

It was agreed that this should be done immediately. 

IMrs. Lennox had given orders that if Lady Dunallan called, 
she should be admitted, so Catharine and her party were obliged 
to pay her a visit. They found her apparently in excessive 
bad humor, which she at first with difficulty suppressed, though 
she received Catharine and her friends with her usual exclama- 
tions of joy. Rose’s joy was real. 

“I am glad to see you can look happy. Rose,” said her 
mother, with an expression of resentment, which showed there 
had been some recent cause for displeasure. 

“Yes, dear mamma,” said Rose, smiling sweetly in her face, 
“we can both be happy now, and you know I cannot be so 
•w'hen it is otherwise.” 

Mrs. Lennox turned away her angry eyes, and remained 
silent for a moment; then turning to Catharine, “ Do you know. 
Lady Dunallan, you surprised every one last night.” 

“ Surprised every one ! ” repeated Catharine, with a look of 
apprehension, “ how ? ” 

“ Oh ! I shall tell you how. I do not know what I had said 
before you came. I had, to be sure, prepared some of my 
friends to see what the style of beauty was I admired more 
than any other. Well, I do not know what kind of taste they 
suppose me. to have, but when you left the room. Sir George 
Campbell, who is thought a great connoisseur in beauty, came 
to me ; well. Sir George, said I, are you disappointed ? Ex- 
tremely so, madam. You smile. Lady Dunallan, but wait a 
little. Disappointed! repeated 1. Yes, madam. I expected 


848 


dunallan; or, 


that I should see one of those charming creatures, a gay young 
beauty, willing to show her lovely smiles to any one who chose 
to win them from her by a sufficient degree of flattery and ad- 
miration ; instead of which, this beauty of 'yours is one of 
tJiose touching creatures I never dare approach, because I 
cannot get rid of the impression they make on me ; and because 
there is such dignity in their youthful assumption of matronly 
staidness of manner, that I cannot venture to address them as I 
do common beauties.” - t ; 

“I am very glad I looked so matronly,” said Catharine, smil- 
ing. j 

“ And Lady Fitzhenry,” continued Mrs. Lennox, “ could talk 
of no one else, after you ‘were gone. .Is that the young lady, 
asked she, r who has lived almost entirely in seclusion ? and then 
she raved about your beauty and manners.” 

“ Now, Mrs. Lennox,” said Catharine, smiling, “ do not you 
begin with all these pretty speeches about me, to avert the ques- 
tion you must expect from a lady who has always lived in seclu- 
sion.; how you possibly can admit such people as Lady Fitz- 
henry and Sir Henry Moncton into your house? ” !• 

‘^Not at all,, my dear. Your asking such a question only 
proves how innocently ignorant you are of the ways of the 
fashionable world.” 

“:I hope I shall continue ignorant of such bad ways, Mrs. 
Lennox.” 

“Well, wait 'a little, we shall see ; but Lady Fitzhenry’s taste 
at Ifeast cannot be disputed ; besides, Sir Henry also joined in 
admiring you ; and Lady Fitzhenry asked so very particularly 
and minutely about Lord Dunallan; where he was ; when he 
liad left you: and a thousand other questions ; and With such 
very deep interest, I really was half surprised myself, well as I 
know the impression your appearance makes on strangers.” 

Catharine felt uneasy, yet dreaded betraying any emotion. 
“ Do not speak any more of these people to me, Mrs. Lennox,” 
said she with forced gaiety ; “ you surely do not wish them to 
make a conquest of me in return.” . 

“ Oh, no. Yet I am sure you would like Lady Fitzhenry, if 
you knew her. She is a very charming woman.” 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


349 


_ She has no charm at all for me,” said Rose, « every senti- 
ment or opinion almost, that she utters, is to me unnatural, or 
erroneous, and her manners are. far too refinedly free ; but here 
is her carriage, I think,” continued Rose, leaning towards the 
window, then drawing back that she might not be observed. 
“ Mamma, did, you desire her to be admitted ? the servant is 
opening the carriage door.”, ^ ; 

Mrs. Lennox looked confused ;* Miss Morven immediately 
;rose — ^ - ,,./)■ .j ... 

“ Do not go, I entreat you,” exclaimed Mrs. Lennox ; but 
Catharine immediately! rose also, and took leave of Mrs. Len- 
nox T^uth a look of offended dignity. 

Lady Fitzhenry was just entering as they left the apartment. 
She stood back until they passed, and returned Catharine’s cold 
and slight courtesy, with one of such graceful lowliness, and ac- 
companied by such an expression of humility, ithat Catharine 
was touched, and when she got into the carriage remarked it to 
Miss Morven. . ;J - 

Miss Morven’s cheek still glowed. ‘‘Intolerable ! ” exclaimed 
she; “ to be ‘forced to meet such a wpman. You h’emark her 
lowliness of manner ; why should she have it, unless she is 
conscious of guilt ? and if so, she loses the excuse her friends 
wish to plead for her, thatfher very powers of judging between 
right and wrong have been destroyed by the prmciples she has 
adopted.” ■ . .1 . 

“ But she must be aware,” said Elizabeth, “ that she is con- 
demned by others, and that is a depressing feeling.” 

“ Unhappy creature !•” exclaimed Catharine,bwith much emo- 
tion ; how pitiable to see one apparently so feeling, so superior 
in talent, so captivating in manners,' thus comj^letely lost ! ” 

“ Yes,” replie’d Miss Morven, “ it is truly so. I cannot, how- 
ever, suppose she possesses feeling, at least not the kind of feel- 
ing you mean. She has no pity for others. A father, brothers, 
sisters, have all been sacrificed by her to feeling, she would say j 
but I say to selfish guilty. ;passions. I have no patience for the 
admiration and pity this woman inspires,” continued Miss Mor- 
ven ; “ in my opinion, there cannot be a more worthless crea- 

30 


350 


DUNALLAN; OR, 


ture. Had you seen her father, Lady Dunallan, or yoif, Mrs. 
Melville, so venerable ! such a noble countenance ! his charac- 
ter held in the highest honor by all who knew him — had you 
seen him, as I did, return from visiting this guilty woman, in 
the hope of reviving some feeling of virtue in her breast ; had 
you seen him, struggling with shame and indignation, and re- 
maining tenderness, command his family never more to mention 
her name in his presence ; and then from day to day sink into 
deeper dejection, until his life became the victim to her shame ! 
had you heard his dying message to this cruel daughter, ‘ tell 
Augusta that I forgive her, though she has brought my gray 
hairs with shame and sorrow to the grave ; ’ you would feel as 
I do.” 

“ And did she ever hear that message ? ” asked Catharine, 
greatly shocked. 

“ General Hartford himself conveyed it to her.” 

‘‘ And what followed ? ” 

“ Her brother hoped it had made some impression ; but no 
— in less than two months she again appeared in public in all 
the outward marks of wo, but constantly attended by Sir Henry 
Moncton. She, however, did look ill, and there was a story 
told, that during these two months, or a part of them, her spirits 
had been so miserably low, that at one time she had attempted 
to put an end to her existence, by swallowing a quantity of 
laudanum. I know not, however, whether there is any truth in 
this story.” 

Catharine felt greatly shocked ; and when again alone, her 
thoughts were deeply occupied with Miss INIorven’s account of 
the unhappy Lady Fitzhenry. Could Dunallan know all her 
guilt and want of feeling? He probably did, and Catharine 
thought with pain of the many Avretched hours her conduct 
must occasion him. There was but one event which could 
remove this wretchedness — a total change -of heart and life in 
Lady Fitzhenry. Was this likely ? Catharine remembered that 
the Christian religion excluded none from its hopes — none, 
however depraved, from its offer of renovation of heart, and 
complete forgiveness. Lady Fitzhenry she now regarded with 


KNOW WUAT YOU JUDGE. 


351 


very painful interest for Dunallan’s sake. She recollected what 
Churchill had said, “ That in her conscience there seemed to be 
no light ; ” and she fervently raised her soul to heaven in behalf 
of this unhappy woman ; and from that day she prayed regu- 
larly for that mercy and light from heaven to rest on the per- 
verted and guilty Lady Fitzhenry, which she sought not herself, 
and was apparently unconscious she required. 

Next morning, and every morning following for several days, 
brought a letter to Catharine from Dunallan, each succeeding 
one more tenderly affectionate than the former. In his last he 
said — “I have now spent two days almost constantly with my 
miserable brother-in-law. I shall not shock you, either by 
describing the situation in which I found him, or the state of his 
mind. The last, indeed, is indescribable. No language could 
convey to you the deep and settled gloom which has taken pos- 
session of him ; and which only gives place to moments of 
horror so overpowering, that he seems unconscious of the pres- 
ence of those around him and gives expression to the agony 
of his feelings with such vehemence, and in language so appal- 
ling, that even the hardened beings I found attending on him 
did so with reluctance. Can I witness a mind in such a state, 
my dearest Catharine, and not remember from what I myself 
liave been saved ? Poor Harcourt is no more ignorant of true 
religion than I was before my beloved Churchill, with su^h 
unwearied patience, pursued me with instruction ; and to whose 
providence do I owe my ever having known that friend of my 
soul ? I now attempt to follow Churchill’s example of patience 
in watching every moment for an opportunity to introduce into 
the mind of Harcourt some ray of light or hope or peace, 
from the only source of truth — the word of God; but to the 
admission of light, or hope, or peace, his mind seems closed 
in the hardness of stone, and the darkness of eternal night. 
Walderford is now in London, and, with Christian compassion, 
joins me in watching over this wretched being. Another dear 
and feeling friend, a clergyman, also visits him. He is best 
pleased when we are all with him ; but nothing for a moment 
dispels the awful gloom of his awakened conscience. My inde- 


J52 


I3UNALLAN ; OK^ 


fatigably kind friend, Clanmar, lias procured a house for us 

near his own, in Square, 'to which Harcourt was removed 

this morning ; my agent, Mr. Howell, having acconimodated 
matters ' with his creditors. Harbourt has no wish to see his 
children; indeed, whatever^ would recall the past, he seems to 
dread would' only add to his misery. I think, however, that his 
seeing them might tend to soften' his feelings, and any softness 
of heart in his present state might,' I think, be a means of 
good ; but I feel that I am selfish in this wish, so shall not 
attempt to find good ' reasons. I have written to my aunt ; I 
think she will come ; and if so, she will be in Edinburgh two 
days after you receive this ; she will -remain one night, and on 
the day aftery I trust I may hope that my Catharine is on the 
road to London. ■ I shall not trust myself to say more.” 

In another part of his letter, Dunallan wrote — “You ask 
me, my Catharine, to tell you if I have seen St. Clair, and 
exactly to describe his looks and manner on meeting me.' I 
shall attempt to do as you wish. I have met him twice, for 
short intervals, at Clanmar’s. His looks and manner are as 
cold and contemptuous as possible, and certainly convey as 
much aversion and hatred as looks or manner could convey. I 
have, both times we met, avoided all interconrse with him, farther 
than common civility required, and will continue, my Catharine, 
tc4 do so, while his feelings seem so unconquerably hostile 
towards me; but I never return his' looks of contempt ; indeed, 
how can I feel any thing but pity 'for liim, when I recollect how 
long and intimately he was acquainted with the loveliest and 
most attractive woman I ever knew, and how much liis natural 
vanity had led him to hope ? So you see, my sweet friend, 
how groundless your apprehensions on this subject are ; indeed, 
I scarcely understand them ; for you know, that whatever treat- 
ment this St. Clair chooses to bestow on me, as a Christian, I 
must Just patiently bear it. 

“ Before I leave this subject, however, I must tell you, that I 
am acquainted with what you intended to keep secret from me. 
My aunt, dreading farther misunderstandings between us, has 
informed me of your having written to St. Clair. . I suppose. 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE.' 


363 


my love, he has not attended to your request. T do not suppose 
he ever will ; indeed, when I recollect how^iyoii are to prove to 
me that you never wrote these cruel letters, I wish lie never 
may. 'lou remember, Catharine, how you arelo prove this — 
by your kindness — your affection for me. I think I shall be 
very difficult to convince,” etc. 

Catharine, after; reading his letter, could think little of any 
part of its contents, compared to the passage respecting 8t. 
Clair. She perceived that he did not mean to answer her 
letter to him. He might have done so, since there had been 
time for Dunallan’s receiving Mrs. Oswald’s letter; and his 
continued and evident hatred of Dunallan, she felt certain, fore- 
boded evil. She had known St. Clair from his early youtli, and 
there was a determined resolution in his character, and a care- 
lessness of what means he used to attain a purpose on which he 
had once fixed, which she now recollected with terror. Dun- 
allan, too, seemed so little on his guard, that her fears increased 
the longer she allowed herself to think. 

Next morning her forebodings seemed realized — the usual 
hour passed, and no letter came from Dunallan. She could not 
suppress her disa})pointment and anxiety; yet what, cause had 
she to expect she should liear from hirn fevery day ?, no other 
than that she had hitherto done so. She could not, however, 
reason herself into any peace of mind. Her' apprehensions 
increased with her attempts to overcome them. Ashamed, 
however, to confess to Elizabeth that Dunallan’s omitting to 
writ(j one day occasioned her so much uneasiness, and unwil- 
ling to rev'eal the real cause of her Jinxiety, she suffered her 
friend to suppose that her pale looks proceeded from headache. 
It was Sunday, and Elizabetli objected to her taking an aching 
head to churcli, but Catharine hoped to find support there for 
her oppressed spirits, and insisted on going. 

Elizabeth, as they went, praised the eloquence of the preacher 
they were to hear, and Catharine, when he pronounced, in an 
emphatic and solemn voice, the beautiful words of Scripture on 
which he meant to discourse, felt how admirably suitable the 
consolation offered by the Author of our existence is to his 
30 


354 


dunallan; or. 


creatures in every situation : Thou shalt keep him in perfect 
peace whose mind is stayed on thee.” Catharine reproached 
herself for having for an instant sought to stay her mind on 
any other support; and she soon felt that calm which accom- 
panies the persuasion that we rest upon Omnipotence. The 
preacher’s ideas, however, instead of increasing this delightful 
feeling, rather weakened it, by the distance at which he kept 
from explaining the nature of that support which the feelings 
and necessities of the human heart require. He spoke of grief, 
and disappointment, and anxiety of mind, and of the insufficiency 
of all human support ; but this was all he seemed himself to 
have learned. When he spoke of the supjwrt given by God 
to his creatures, he so clothed his ideas in metaphors, that the 
heart which really sought some place of refuge and strength, 
saw none where to fix. 

“You have seen,” vsaid he, “the wide expanse of heaven 
clothed with dark and threatening clouds, their gloom so deep 
that they obscured the cheering i-ays of that glorious orb on 
which all nature depends for life and joy. You *still believed, 
however, that his beams shone resplendently behind that gloomy 
veil. You have seen him, before he left your sky to sink into 
the ocean, rend the dark veil, and, after skirting its edges with 
glory, burst upon your sight in all his briglitness ; while 
mountains, fields, woods, and the broad deep, as if rejoicing in 
his return, reflected his rays with glorious splendor — thus will 
you feel, my friends, when prosperity again beams upon you, 
if in adversity you have stayed your minds on God.” And 
thus he went on from one metaphor to another, while his 
admiring audience listened to words which had no power to do 
more than please the imagination. It was only in describing 
the deeper religious feelings, however, that he had recourse to 
such unintelligible language. In mattters less connected with 
the devotion of the heart, he was simple and wise, as well as 
eloquent. ... . > 

When the service M^as over, Elizabeth whispered to Catha- 
rine, “ I am sure you must be pleased.” Catharine shook her 
head. Elizabeth seemed disappointed, and rather displeased. 


KNOW WIIAT YOU JUDGK. 


355 


Miss Morven, joined them as. they left the church. When 
they had got into tlie- carriage, Elizabeth' a[)pealed to Miss 
Morveii whethp any^ thing •.could be more beautiful than wliai 
they had just heard. - .n ... 

“ Beautiful .^indeed, in some parts/’ replied Miss Morven: 
“ but tell me what does the i)rophet mean when he speaks of 
staying our hciirts on God? I,nm sure I understand his words 
no better .than Yvhen l enter.ed the church. Clouds ; })rosperity ; 
sun ; he left us all in the clouds whenever *1 particularly wished 
him to be clear and explicit.” i “ 'd ‘ ' 

, . Elizabeth attempted, but in vain, to explain the language of 
her favorite orator;-,) ' ; » . . . i ' ' ' r 

“ If you will ispend the interval, until afternoon church with 
me,” said Miss Morven, “ I think I can undertake to introduce 
you to a better preacher.” • n • r . 

Catharine and her friend consented,- and ; after Miss Morven 
had, with some difficulty, directed the servants to the place, 
they stopped at the entrance into a narrow lane, which Miss 
Morven called — Close. 81ie seemed quite at home in this 
wretched part of the town, and conducted her friends to the top 
of a flight of steps, which Catharine recognized as those de- 
scribed by Rose Lennox. Miss Morven opened j the door in 
the dark passage^ and herself led the way into the apartment 
where -the poor family resided. All was now as comfortable as 
the smallness of the place would admit.-: The sick woman sat 
up in bed, supported- by pillowsj while the mother anid sister, 
with her poor little child in. her lap, sat close by dier. A- Bible 
lay open upon Mary’s bed. : , > 

“How are you, Mary?” said Miss Morven, holding out her 
hand with the gentleness and familiarity of a sister. 

Mary clasped it in both, of hers, her eyes sparkling with 
pleasure, “ Dear, blessed Miss Morven ! ” exclaimed she. 

“ I have brought’ two friends of' mine to see you, Maiy,” con- 
tinued Miss Morven, “and to stay with you between sermons.’ 
This is Lady Dunallan, who sent you so many things.”^ 

Catharine held out her hand to her — she looked earnestly at 
Catliarine, who smiled in turn. “.You look as if you knew me, 
Mary.” 


356 


dunallan; or, 

“ Oh no, my lady,^ but I seldom see such sights.” She then 
looked at Elizabeth with great pleasure, and, turrting to Miss 
Morven, said, with an expression of elevated joy, “ how delight- 
ful to see such ladies brought to remember their ‘glorious Crea^ 
tor in the days of their youth. Oh ! ladies, how much you have 
in your power ! ” i ‘ 

Catharine, refusing to take the seat of the poor sister w^ho held 
the child, sat down on Mary’s ‘ bed.''' Miss ‘ Morven and Ellza^ 
beth did 'the same.; and Catharine lifting the Bible, Mary said 
shb had been attempting to read to her mother and sister, but 
the exertion had increased the cough and pain in her side so 
much, she had been forced to stop. Catharine olfefed to read, 
and the poor people accepted of her offer with much gratitude. 
She turned to the passage on which the clergyman had preacdied, 
and began reading from the commencement of the chapter. 
When she came to the passage, Mary clasped her hands together, 
exclaiming, in a low voice, “ Yes, perfect — perfect peace ! ” 
Catharine stopped. “What do you think is the meaning of this 
])assage, Mary ? ” asked she. . (. ■ 

“Ah, madam!” replied Mary, ‘“I am sure you know its 
meaning by. sweet experience; but if you wish me to add my 
testimony to the truth of this precious promise, I can say, that 
the peace I enjoy, when I simply' :rely on my Lord and Re- 
deemer for the salvation of 'my soul, and for 'deliverance from 
darkness and sin, and resign all my cares and sorrows into his 
hands, is so delightful- — so .perfect I would not' exchange it 
for health and friends and plenty: no, not for all the w'orld has 
to offer without it.” ( ■ .=■" 

Mary’s countenance expressed even more than Ler words. 
Elizabeth turned- away, to conceal the tears she could not sup- 
press. Miss Morven and Catharine smiled* with softened 
pleasure to each other. Catharine then continued to read for 
some time to the poor people, who audibly expressed their 
emotions as she proceeded. When she had finished, Mary 
thanked her wdth such moving expressions from Scripture, that 
Catharine felt she was the gainer. “ Blessed,!’ said Mary, “ is 
she that considercth the poor. The Lord will deliver her in 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGL. 


357 


the time of trouble. The Lord will preserve her, and k^ep her 
alive, and she shall be blessed upon the earth. The Lord wilb 
strengthen her upon tlie bed of languishing. Thou wilt make- 
all her bed ill her sickness. lie that hath mercy on .the poor, 
happy is he.” ' J’ i- ■ , ; 

Catharine entered into conversation with the other’sister. 

I believe your husband is abroad.” . , i, i 

“ Yes, my lady.” . :r ) ; .-(it 

“ And you have not heard very lately from him ? ” 

“ Not for two years, my lady ; but Miss Morven has found 
out lor me that he is alive in India.” ? it 'i ' .i n l ; v. • 

“I rejoice to hear that! How happy this intelligence must 
have made you. .Should you like to go to him? for you » Shall 
be enabled if you wish it.” ' ^ r 

“Oh ! my lady, I should like it well, but ! must not think of 
it. Do not say any thing about it, if you please, my lady. I 
must not leave my mother and Mary ; I know he is alive, that 
is a great mercy. ' Oh what days I have . spent when I thought 
he might be gone forever, and knew' not whelhei* he was pre- 
pared for this change. That was a heavy burden to bear!” 

“ Heavy indeed ! ” replied Catharine, her own anxiety 'about 
Dunallaii, on such comparatively trifling grounds^ returning to 
her recollection. n ' i i 

“ Oh madam,” said the woman, “ if I knew that he had a 
regard for. the everlasting interests of 'his soul, I could easily 
bear jmy thing, I think, that the Lord should choose to lay upon 
me;” ■ ' ' f- • ' ' >ii 

Catharine’s heart smote her for her own unthankfulness. ‘ ^ 
‘•This is indeed a' sermon,” thought she. <. She then linquired 
more particularly • regarding what means of intercourse the 
woman had with her husband ; and making herself i mistress of 
all the information respecting him that she could, she hoped 
that Dunallan would be able to assist her in -procuring some 
intelligence I'especting him for his poor wife. • ’ < ’ r* 

AVhen Catharine and her friends took leave of this suffering 
family, each member of it seemed really happy. The two 
little girls had come in from church, looking -well and joyous. 


358 


DUNALLAN; OR,- • 


Poor Mary, as she raised her leyes to heaven, fervently imploring 
a blessing on her benefactresses, seemed beyond the reach of 
this world’s griefs; and the tranquillity of her soul gave to her 
countenance an expression sO' heavenly, that, as ISIiss *Morven' 
remarked when they left her, no one could think it kindness to 
wish. to keep her from that state, in vdiichfonly she could now 
find those holy joys, of which .her soul seemed to enjoy a 
foretaste on this side the grave. 

Catharinfe and Elizabeth accompanied Miss Morven to another 
(Jhurch in' the afternoon. It was meaner in its appearance, 
very crowded, but half tilled with poor people. The clergyman’s 
eloquence was only that of the heart, yet Catharine felt it more 
affecting than the flowing language of the other, or rather his 
ideas were more so. lie, too, discoursed on the consolation 
afforded by religion in situations of distress ; but where the last 
preacher had seemed to lose himself in vague uncertainty, tlio 
present seemed to speak from the most intimate knowledge of 
his subject. “If we have indeed .received the Lord Jesus Christ 
for our Lord and Master,”/ said he, “ we must be certain he is 
leading us in that road which 'will terminate in everlasting 
luqipiness, however rough some parts of it may appenr to be. 
Mliy do we call ourselves his servants? Why do we profess 
to believe in his wisdom, his truth, liis care, his love : and yet 
shrink from the very expnjssions of those towards ourselves? 
If we truly believed, Ave would lay ourselves iji humility at his 
feet, and say. Lord, we know that we cannot guide our own 
hearts and ways ; Ave knoAV tliat tliou only canst sanctify and 
prepare us for thyself. iTake our hearts, and in thy oAvn 
Avisdom mould them by Avhat means tliou wilt into thy glorious 
likeness ; thou knoAvest all our temptations and Aveakness, order 
every circumstance in our lives, for our ultimate eternal 
happiness Avith thee — regard not our prayers but as they tend 
to those ‘only valuable ends. Thus believing, Ave should look 
on every event as coming immediately from that Avisdom which 
cannot erf — from that love which is more deep — more tender 
than Ave can conceive. We should be ready to accept whatever 
he has sent us, as best and kindest, though it should appear 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


359 


clothed in all that excites present anguish. Believing thus, we 
should experience his power to support, and even to enable us 
to rejoice in the most severe afflictions.” * • i 

Catharine listened with tlie deepest interest, and fervently 
raised her heart in prayer to heaven, that this firm ti-ust, tliis 
devotion of every feeling and every. i wish to the will of her 
heavenly Lord, might be imparted to her. She was deeply 
affected, so much so, that after Miss Morven, who seemed to 
understand her feelings, had left her, and she returned to 
Elizabeth’s house, she found it irksome to enter into conversation 
with those around her. Elizabeth, knowing her newly acquired 
ideas about keeping Sunday, had declined going, as she usually 
did, to her motlier’s, but had invited her family to spend the 
day witli her, telling Catharine she should prescribe the way in 
which they should pass the evening. Catliarine, however 
longed for solitude ; and after staying with her young relations 
until Melville had read a sermon, during which Elizabeth 
listened with deep attention, Melville swallowed a hundred yawns^ 
and Helen Graham in vain attempted to suppress the sniii^3.s 
which Elizabeth’s brother Arthur purposely provoked ; she 
retired to her own apartment, to indulge those devotional feelings 
which were deeply wounded by the want of religion in those she 
loved — “This, too, I must leave to Him who can alone change 
their hearts,” sighed she, as she bent her knees to pray for them. 
Elizabeth, however, seemed more thoughtful, and this filled her 
heart with gratitude. 

When Catharine had remained al)Out an hour alone, she 
was interrupted by Helen Graham knocking softly at her 
door, — 

“ Will you admit me, dear Catharine ? ” 

“ Certainly, Helen.” • \ , 

“You are displeased with me, Catharine, — you looked much 
so as you left the drawing-room.” . ' 

“ No, Helen ; I am only grieved.” 

“My dear Catharine, I could not help laughing.” 

“ Oh, Helen’, how childisli ! but forgive me, I do not mean to 
offend you.” • ^ 

“ But you think me wrong, dear Catharine.” 


3G0 


DUNALLAN OR, 


do, dear Helen, most certainly think so. I think every, 
one wrong who neglects the positive commandments of God, 
which you certainly do in trifling away the Sunday as you do. 
Surely your own conscience must reproach' you. I must be 
very fnink and plain with you, my own Helen. I do think you 
very wrong, but my thinking so is of very little consequence — • 
this is mot whatil wish you to think of ” ; 

Oh, I know what you wish me to think of,” interrupted 
Helen, “ and I promise I shall attempt, to do as you wish. I 
cannot bear those grave looks,” added she, the tears starting into 
her eyes. ' 

Catharine embraced her. “ You .will not repent doing so, my 
own dear Helen. Where is Elizabeth ? ” > 

“ She left the room just after you. I have not seen her, 
since.” 

Catharine was pleased. She hoped Elizabeth had f('lt a 
desire to examine her heart in private, and she knew that this 
was a first and necessary step towards the knowledge of true 
religion. She went in search of her,- and found her, as she 
Avished, employing herself in reading and reflecting on Avhat she 
read, Avith a desire to understanddts meaning, and to judge her 
opinions and feelings by the Scriptures. Catharine remained 
long in conversation Avith this (next to Dunallaii) dearest of 
friends. 

“ I have not forgot your questions, my true friend,” said 
I'dizabeth, during their coriA^ersation, “ they have not been ab- 
sent from my thoughts half an hour since you asked them ; and 
they can be answered but in due way, and that completely con- 
demns my neglect of religion hitherto. I am deeply sensible of , 
this, and Avish, my own Catharine, that you Avill be very plain 
Avith me in all you say on this subject.” 

' “ Elizabeth, my dear, first friend, you may trust me,” replied 
Catharine Avith delight. '• G 

I On the following -morning, Catharine was again disappointed 
*in receiving a' letter from Dunallan, and the day passed heavily 
on. She could engage in nothing proposed by Iflizabeth, and 
Avas at last obliged to confide to her the cause of her uneasiness. 

• 0 ( 


KNOW WIIAT YOU JUDGE. 


3G1 


Elizabeth knew St. Clair; and although she considei-ed Catha- 
! rine’s fears as going too far, yet did not regard them as altogether 
groundless ; and by thus partly agreeing with her, succeeded in 
some degree in bringing Catharine to think as she did. 

•* In the evening, Mrs. Oswald arrived, and so completely did 
she regard the very idea of Dunallan being led by any circum- 
stances whatever into such a quarrel with St. Clair, as iwould 
endanger his safety, as an impossibility,, that Catharine felt as- 
sured, and, in some degree, at peace. Mrs. Oswald, too, had 
twenty reasons to assign for his not writing ; and Avhen she left 
Catharine to go to her hotel for the night, Catharine had almost 
forgot her apprehensions. 'i' 


CIIAPTER XXIL ■ ‘ ' 

Next morning Catharine rose with her heart unusually light. 
She had, on first waking, implored the power to lea^ e all 'her 
anxieties and fears Avith Him Avho guides the affairs of his peo])le 
Avith unerring wisdom and love ; and her prayer seemed to be 
granted. .1 ‘d • C 

‘ The hour again passed, hoAvever, and there Avas ho letter 
from Dunallan. She felt that this indeed tried her confidence 
in Ileavbn. ' .. -.‘i- , , 

She joined Elizabclli and Melville. The latter seemed very 
graA^’e, though he talked away in his usual manner. She observed 
that Elizabeth Avatched his countenance, and when she anxiously 
inquiretl if he was well, he turned'away Avith an expression of 
so much uneasiness,* although he attempted to laugh at -Eliza- 
beth's fears, that Catharine felt certain something had happened 
“AAdiicih he a\ ished to conceal. Her heart, begaidto beat violently. 
Elizabeth looked at her, then at Mehille, and then exclaime4- 
Avith a look of terror : “ Catharine ! Philip ! Avhat has happened r 
I see you both attempt to concqal Something from me.” She 
rose and laid her hand on Melville’s arm. “ Do not conceal any 

thing from me, Philip — Avhatl'Hvho is ilh? Is myhiotlier ” 

31 


302 


PUN ALL an; OTl, 

- Melville took hcji* haml, “ Come witli me, my Elizabetli ; do 
not be alarmed.” He led her from the room. 

Catharine for a moment supposed that it was from Klizabcth 
that Melville had wished to conceal something ; but soon licr 
fears 'respecting Dunallan returned, and she hurried after them. 
-They stood at a little distance from the door, Melville whispering 
to b^lizabeth, but on seeing Catharine, he drew her away. 

‘‘ I see liow it is, iny friends ! ” exclaiined she, with forccid 
calmness ; “ do not be afraid to tell me — I am prepared — 01 1 , 
myGod,liave pity on me ! He is not gone, — say not tins! 
Speak, Elizabeth ” . 

“No, my dearest Catharine; but.be composed, my dear 
friend, and you shall know all.” 

“ I am composed, l^lizabeth. Tell me quickly what is it ? 
How ! why are you silent ? ” 

IClizabeth led her bfiek into the room. 

“ This letter is from ]Mr. Clanmar, you shall read it yourself, 
.Catharine.” ., r ' . ‘ ^ 

“ From Clanmar ? Oh, merciful Father, have pity ! Is'Hun- 
allan unable to write 1 I cannot see, hlllzabeth I Head it for 
me.” 

Elizabeth did as she desired. 

“ It is with extreme pain, my dear madam, that I sit down to 
inform you of an event which, took place yesterday,: .in which 
m.y beloved friend, Lord Dunallan, received a wound which I 
fear will, at least, prove troublesome aild tedious in recovering. , 
His anxiety about Lady Dunallan will, I fear, increase the j 
difficulty-^ ' ' I 

Catharine started up I ,“I\yill go to him, Elizabeth ! In- 
^tantl}" I will go ! Why should I delay a moment ? He is my 
husband!” . 

. “ T ou shall do as you wish, dear Catharine. I will accom- 
pany jmu, for Mrs. Oswald will not be able to- travel so nipiclly i 
as you will wish to do.” ■ ..j ■ 

“ 1 ou, Elizabeth ! no, no, yon ought not, my Elizabeth — | 
you shall not — I wish for no One to accompany me. Will you 
order every thing immediately for me, Mr. Melville ? ” 


KNOW : AVI I AT YOU JUDGE. 


363 


ij shall instantly,! my deaiviiLady. Duhallan,: and i myself ac-: 

company you.”^< I s-s ■ ' yi I ;ii, 

~ “ Oh ! , no, >my too kind friends. > - Give me this lejfcter, Eliza- 

beth.” She hastily, took it, and liurrying ito her ; apartment, 
threw herself in an agony, of grief and iappreliension on her' 
knees. ’ n ' .ij ff;:.! ' 

“Oh! not tins I not this! gracious, merciful Father I Oh, 
spare him! <save him.”‘‘ She sunk into fervent internal-prayer. 
At last a feeling of trust in the mercy and compassion !of Heaven, 
produced a- burst of > tear, s which relieved her heart.; She trem- 
bled, however, on recollecting that she had herself, on the even- 
ing before, prayed that she might experience’ what that firm 
trust in the love of God' was', Avhich could support in the 
severest afilictions. , She again poured ^out her soul in-liumble 
and fervent prayer. ' Some one at last knocked at her door ; she 
’ started up, the door was gently opened, and Miss Mor'ven en- 
I tered. Catharine turned away. 

li “I intrude/ dear Lady Dunallan, but I come to ask a; favor.” 
I 0 Catharine turned to her ; Miss Morven seemed greatly 
I affected. “ AVhat^ caii ' I do for you, 'Mis.s Morven'? said 
I Catharine, in a gentle tone of voice. Miss Morven.seemed un- 
j| ablc^ to speaki’ ■' . . ’ ‘ ' . 

i' She took Catharine’s hand in hers. “ How soon’ are you 
I called oh, lily dfeai’ Lady Dunallan, to experience the truth of 

{ what we heard yesterday.” 

, — “ OIi;! Miss Morven, I cannot! I shrink from it — I .cah- 

not ;” she shuddered, “but I must not think.’* 

'“But why anticipate more’ -thah L necessary!” said ’Miss 
IMorven. •• ^ 

■ ^ “ How ! I scarcely know .what I anticipate; he cannot 
Avrite ! Oh t he would ' not easily haA^e > left that office to 
;/ another. Here is the letter, but I tremble so I cannot read 
it.” Miss Morven took it and read after where; Elizabeth had 
stopped. > - •• . .(f ' C 

“ Lord Dunallan idid nothing- to provoke or expose himself to 
this outrage, for l ean give it a no more honorable name. ‘IMr. 
St. Clair’s violence of temper led him to forget all the feelings 


3G4 


3) UN ALL an; oil, 


of a gentleman and’ 'Lord Dunallan’s cl uiracteiv perfect as it 
was, is still more exalted l)j liis conduct on thi§'.. occasion. I 
slialLnot speak of my own feelings fartlier than to say,jthat if 
the consciousness of the deepest obligations, returned for a time 
by the deepest ! ingratitude, which was mostigeneroiisly forgiven 
and forgotten, can bind the heart, mine will leave no 2 >o.ssiblo 
means 'untried to preserve the precious life, whicih is now dearer 
to me thaiii my own. ' Assure Lady Dunallan of this, my dear 
madam, land :as soon as it is possible. I entreat you to enable 
me to give my friend satisfactory accounts of this object of liis 
deepest anxiety and .solicitude.” n .. , 

Catharine .jWept profusely, and Miss Jtlorven wept with her. 
“The favor thaf^I have to vasktof you, dear Lady Dunallan,” 
said Miss Morven, “is leave to accompany you.”' 

; To accompany! Oh no;, wliy should I trouble and dis- 
tress all my friends ? Let me go alone, Gk)d wall take care of 
me.” . ■' 

’ “You Avill, indeed, disti*ess your friends if you reject tlieir 
attempts to lessen their own anxiety about you, dear = Lady 
Dunallan. In asking leave to accontpany you> I really ask a 
favor. 1 I have a dear friend in London I wish much to see. I 
cannot go alone ; will you consent to my going with you ? Yes! 
you will.” ■r-:;-;. •• .-•->,1 . ' ' h ' 

“You arc too, too kind. Miss Morven; I know it is on my 
account your humanity leads you to ask this — but where is 
Mrs. Oswald.^ Who is with her,? , To whom was thi§ Iptter — ^ 
was it not to her ? ” .• i ‘ . 

r 'iVThe. letter Ls to Mrs. Melville,” -replied Miss Morven, look- 
ing at the address. 

“ And Mrs. Oswald ! ” exclaimed Catharine, “she may not 
know ; I must go immediately to her. M^e were to liave set 
out to-day.” ? ' i , ’ . , . - 

At this moment Mrs. Oswald intercd the room^ She was' as 
pale as marble, but perfectly composed. On seeing Catharine, 
liowever, she was overcome, and burst into^tears. 

“ Shall we not go immediately, Mrs. Oswald ? ” asked Catha- 
rine, eagerly., . 'i . 

“ Certainly, my love, instantly.” 


KNOW WHAT rOU JUDGE. 


365 


“ But, Mrs. Oswald, I wtnlld not stop ; will allow me to 
proceed wit hou*t' stopping.” . y'oo^ \ .. f 

“ We shall not^ sto^% my love, if' God- gives us strength to go 
on.” , 

‘ Martin was -hurrying about making preparations, and Eliza- 
beth also sooh entered. * 

“ My Catharine,’ I shalf now be rest. Mrs.’ Oswald is not 
afraid of being able fo accompany ^qu. Her children will re- 
main with me.” -iv . . 

“No! dear Mrs. Melville,” said Mrs. Oswald, “ the children 
must do as Dunallan wishedi They ‘will follow as soon as Mrs. 
Scott can join them.” ' v . . 

Miss Mbrven entreated that she might be trusted to follow with 
the children, and it was at la^t so settled. Catharine then em- 
braced her friend, “ Elizabeth, fare you well. IVIartin, you must 
have done. Is the carriage rWdy, Elizabeth?” - 

‘Ot is.”’^’ ^ ' ’’ 

“ God bless you, my Elizabeth pray for your friend — we 
may perhaps soon meet if,'— — r- yet I think — I hope — I could 
not survive; but I am wrong — farewell my own Elizabeth.” 

•- Mrs. Oswald was sdon^in the carriage. ‘ 

' “I do not intrude^-myself,” said Melville, as he placed Cath- 
arine by her ; “I see my place far more properly filled ; but I 
have sent a person to attend you, wdio Avill make such arrange- 
ments as will alw'ays enable you to proceed on every part of 
the road when fyou wish to do so.” ' ’ ^ 

' “ Thank you, Mr. Melville ; that is what we most desire.” 

The carriage^drove rapidly away. For some time Mrs. Os- 
wald continued silent, and Catharine indulged those thoughts into 
which she dared not before to enter. At last she broke the si- 
lence, “ Wasnthat letter from Mr. Clamnar the only one which 
Elizabeth received, -my dear Mrs. Oswald? ” asked she ; “were 
there no particulars ? ” ‘ ‘ 

“ I have another letter, my dear, which Mrs. Melville put into 
my hand — but I have not opened it — ^ I scarcely know what I 
am doing — I cannot credit what Thave heard.*” ' 

“ Oh give me the letter, dearest Mrs. Oswald.” She unfold- 

31 ^ 


DUN ALLAN ; OR, 


ed it. “But, I cannot see the writing distinctly.” Mrs. Os- 
wald again took the letter, and with some difficulty read as fol- 
lows. ^'(It was written by Mr, Cameron, and addressed to, Eliz- 
abeth.) ' ; 

. “ Madam, — At last convinced that I have ignorantly been 
engaged in a very dishonorable action, in which that person’s 
happiness is involved, whom on eai'th I should most wisli to 
render happy p i cannot leave. the country, which my rash con- 
nection with Mr. St. Clair obliges me to do immediately, with- 
out [attempting, by the only means in my power, to alleviate 
those sufferings which I now kno^y; the daiiger of Lord Dun- 
allan will create ; and this is by merely doing him justice, 
which, at this moment, I, have it more in my power to do than 
any other person, excepting St. Clair. You, madam, are not 
ignorant of my reasons for disliking, I believe I ought to say, 
hating Lord Dimallan. I regarded him as the most selfish, 
cold-hearted, and hypocritical of human beings ; because I had 
seen him, while at the same time he pretended to more than 
common strictness of principle, persist in completing the un- 
happiness of the most amiable of her sex. All that I afterwaixls 
learned of his character could not do away tliis impression. I 
was assured by St. Clair that Lady Dunallan was miserable. 
I believed him j and when, two evenings ago. Lord Dunallan 
called at Mr. Clanmar’s while I was there, every feeling of re- 
sentment and aversion resumed its influence so completely 
over me that I felt disgusted Muth the conciliating mildness of his 
manners, and was insensible to the superior tone of his conver- 
sation, which seemed to arrest and charm dhe attention of every 
one else the moment he began to talk. ^ mi*): 

“ I thought him consummate in art, and determined not to be 
duped. 8t. Clair was one of the party at Clanmar’s. Ills 
manner to Lord Dunallan, the instant he appeared, was con- 
temptuous, even to insolence. All he said was pointed at him, 
sometimes even grossly so, yet Lord Dunallan remained unpro- 
voked. lie treated . St. Clair with that mild dignity lie so emi- 
nently possesses, and which make those who attack him appear 
BO little and contemptible. I felt provoked ; : and though St. 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


367 


Clair’s mode of expressing Ids dislike was not exactly what I 
should have chosen, I attempted to support him. Lord Dunal- 
lan seemed more sensible to my remarks, and ’'answered them 
with some warmth. St. Clair was delighted to see him moved, 
and redoubled his attacks on every subject on which he thought 
Lord Dunallan could feel sore, but without success. To him 
Lord Dunallan continued* uniformly, but coldly, polite and 
reserved. I again joined. He looked distressed, and Clanmar 
interposed to smoothe an irritation which seemed to threaten 
something more serious. At last a smile of pleasure brightened 
St. Clair’s countenance, as if some happy recollection' had 
returned upon him'. ‘ I believe,’ said he, approaching Mrs. 
Clanmar, near whom Lord Dunallan stood, ‘ I 'believe you 
expressed a wish,' niadanV, to ‘|X)ssess those lines I happened to 
i*epeat in your presence a few days ago. • I have copied them, 
and hope you will be equally pleased with them, on la second 
perusal.’ He stood close to Lord Dunallan, and opened a paper, 
‘ Oh, I> am mistaken, this is only a letter.’ I was lalso standing 
near, and saw this letter was written ••in ■ a hand I well knew. 
Had I not known it I should have been * at no loss, however, foir 
St. Clair had thrown* it with apparent carelessness on the table, 
with the signature just under Lord Dunallan’s eye, while Ire 
seemed to search for the poem. iThe writing was Lady Durt- 
allan’s ■” ' ' ' * <1 

Catharine could hear no farther — she became as pale as 
death; and, in an agony, clasped her hands together, and ex- 
claimed, “ And I am the cause ? Rash, presumptuous folly ! 
Oh Dunallan ; how much am I to make you suffer ! ” She took 
•the letter, and again attempted to read but could not.’ She 
gave it back to Mrs. Oswald, who, after hastily glancing at what 
followed, continued ito read, while Catharine' listened, pale, and 
almost overwhelmed with grief and self-reproach. 

“ I was not surprised at seeing this letter,” continued Cam- 
eron, “for St.Clair had mentioned to me having received a 
few lines from* Lady Dunallan, respecting a favorite servant 
whom Lord Dunallan had dismissed. I immediately saw St. 
Clair’s 2 )urpose, which must have been jiremeditated. It had 


3G8 


dunallan; or, 


almost been defeated, however, for Lord Dunallan never Isocked 
at the letter, until Mrs. Clanmar exclaimed, ‘ What .beautiful 
little female writing ! May I look at it, Mr. St. Clair r ' 

“ ‘ Certainly, madam,’ replied he. 

“‘Look, my Lord,’ continued Mrs. Clanmar. 

, “ He turned his eyes to the' letter, and instantly became pale, 
but held out his hand to receive it. St. Clair would have 
snatched it from him, but he retired a step, and said, while he 
calmly folded it up, and looking sternly at St. Clair, ‘ This I 
will certainly not sutler. I know the subject of this letter, Mr. 
St. Clair, and the generosity to you whicli dictated it, although 
,I knew of neither at the time it was written.’ fie tiien put 
up the letter, and calmly resumed his place near Mrs. Clanmar, 
though his countenance still expressed considerable emotion. 

“ St. Clair’s lip became pale, and his eyes flashed fire, but he 
remained silent. Clanmar advanced with a look of alarm. ‘ Do 
not be alarmed, my friend,’ said Lord Dunallan. ‘ I shall easily 
explain all this to you, and my conduct must be completely un- 
.derstood elsewhere already ; ’ and for once he looked at St. 
Clair with an expression of contempt. ' c 

‘f St. Clair, however, instead of attempting to return this look, 
appeared quite confounded ; and after some ineffectual attempts 
-to recover his composure, took leave. There were several 
people present, and I felt astonished at St. Clair’s looks and con- 
duct. I soon followed him. •> ; - 

“ ‘ You have learned to bear insult with great magnanimity, 
St. Clair,’ said I. ‘ I would bear any thing to save the reputa- 
tion of Lady Dunallan,’ replied he.” . i 

“Vile! infamous St, Clair!” exclaimed Catharine. Mrs. 
Oswald continued, • J 

“ ‘ You must still befriend me, Cameron, and be with me when 
I meet, I hope, for the last time, this arch-hypocrite.’ 

“I promised, and next morning carried his demand of an 
explanation to Lord Dunallan. I found him engaged with 
several gentlemen. > He, however, guessed the nature of my 
.business with him, and conducted me to another apartment. 

“ He read St. Clair’s note, then said, ‘ Mr. St, Clair knows 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


36D 


that I will not reply to this as he wishes’.' He is perfectly ac- 
quainted with my sentiments and principles on this subject.’ 

• “ ‘ My lord/ replied I, ‘ he does know your avowed principles ; 

but he very naturally thinks, -that when one gentleman treats 
another as you chose to treat him last night, he must either 
intend to abandon such principleSj or be* willing to submit to the 
inference the world must arrive at, when a man pleads strict- 
ness of principle to exempt him* from giving satisfaction for an 
insult, which strictness of principle ought to have prevented.’ 

“ ‘ You are warm, jMr. Cameron, pray do you know who 
.was the writer of ‘that letter which Mr. St. Clair so boastingly 
dis})layed?’ •'*'* ‘ 

“ ‘ I do, my lord.’ - r 

“‘ And can you think there was any thing contrary to the 
strictest principle in my value for tlie delicacy of that person, 
even at the expense of insulting,‘call it if you please, the man 
who could so ungenerously attempt to wound it ? ’ 

“ ‘ My lord,’ replied I, hesitatingly, ‘ I came not here as a 
judge I only — — ’ > • >; . * . ■ 

“ ‘ But I wish yOu to judge, Mr. Cameron, I wish to convince 
you, ‘Whose opinion I do value, that I am not wrong, — that’ my 
principles^ may proceed frorn^ conviction, not pretence.’ 

My lord,’ replied I, ‘ it is of little consequence to me what 
your principles proceed from. I merely wish for aui answer to 
my friend.’ * ^ ^ • 

• He seemed 'hurt. ‘ You have my answer, sir. Nothing, I 
trust, will ever induce me to meet any man, either' to give or 
receive satisfaction in any way repugnant, equally to the laws 
of God and of humanity.’ ' 

“ I immediately took iiiy leave, and returned to St. Clair. 
He did not seem' at all' sui-prised. ‘I expected this,’ said he^ 
‘blithe shall meet me. “He and I shall not -both see another 
week.’ 

- “ I left St. Clair, but soon had a note from him, desiring me 

rto meet him at seven o’clock on the following morning, at 

Farm. 

“I was at theiplace at tli6 hour appointed,' and found St. Clair 


870 


DUNALLAN; OR, 


alone, anxiously waiting, my arrival. I asked him how he had 
induced Lord Dunallan to consent to meet him ? , j.. 

. “ ‘ He shall meet me i ’ replied he, furiously. Another car- 

riage soon arrived withjClanmar ; and soon after another, which 
■jvas stopped by a servant of St. Clair’s as it was proceeding past 
the place 'where w^e- stood, and Lord Dunallan alighted, and 
joined us. t .. 

He seemed surprised on seeing us. 

“ ‘ What has happened, Clanmar ? ’ asked he, ‘ Why am I 
sent for ? ’ 

“ St. Clair, .who had stood rather concealed by some bushes, 
approached. 

“ ‘ You are sent for, my lord.’ said he, wnth suppressed vio- 
lence, Ho give me an -opportunity of clearing my honor from 
the stain you have attempted to fix upon it. Your scruples are 
now useless — the world will know you have met me, whatever 
happens.’ , • t ' . . 

“ Lord ^ Dunallan tumed to Clanmar and me, ‘I declare to 
you,’ said he, ‘ I have been deceived. This note (showing it to 
us), is an invitation to be with a friend of mine,.wlK) lives a few 
miles from town, at eight o’clock. I suppose, sir,’ turning to 
St. Clair, ‘ I need proceed no farther. This note, I presume, 
was w ritten by you ’ - i 

“ ‘ No, njy lord, you need proceed' no farther. Clanmar is 
your friend. Here are pistols — take your choice.’ ’ r 

“ ‘ Clanmar,’ said Lord Dunallan, ‘ I suppose you also came 
•without knowing for wdiy ? ’ . ■’ 

“ ‘I came here, Dunallan, because I had a- message in your 
name asking me to meet your here.’ • . i- . . • ^ 

“ ‘Then, my friend, we may return together.’ He turned 
towards his carriage. St. Clair rushed before, him. 

“ ‘Never, Dunallan ; Ave shall never part tilLyou have. given 
me the satisfaction I demand.’ 

“ ‘ Madman !’! exclaimed Lord Dunallan in anger; but in- 
stantly recovering hinasclf, he turned to me, ‘ Mr. Cameron, 
you know my determination. Your friend is too violent, to lis- 
ten to me ; but again I repeat it, nothing will induce me to do 
k\s he wishe.s.’ 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


371 


“He again turned* to leave the ground, when St. Clair, quite* 
beside himself, held a pistol to his breast. ‘ You shall ilot go — . 
your cowardice shall hot protect you.’ ^ ' * 

“ Lord Dunallan seized his arm, and, wrenching the pistol 
from his hand, fired it in the air, and then threw it away. St. 
Clair seized another. ' I caught his arm. ‘ Are you mad, St. 
Clair?’ but it was too late.* Lord Dunallan received its con- 
tents in his side, and fell.” 

' “ Thank God ! thank God ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Oswald, clasp- 
ing her hands together, and raising her eyes to* heaven, “ Duh- 
allan has not forsaken ^ — he has* nobly kept the path of duty! 
Thanks be to God. Oh Catharine, what Lh'ave suffered for the 
last hour, in the dread that he had ! Mr. IVIelville said he had 
been wounded in an affair of honor, — your forebodings, Cath- 
arine. Dear; beloved Dunallan 1” “ 

“ Read on, Mrs. Oswald, I entreat you,” exclaimed Catha- 
rine. Mrs. Oswald* seemed a- new creature. She wept, but 
proceeded. * * 

“When St. Clair saw Lord 'Dunallan fall, he gave a horrid 
laugh, exclaiming, ‘It is done!’ then turning to me, said, ‘ Cam- 
eron, why did you touch my arm ? ’ 

' “ Clanmar had raised Lord Dtmallan. He seemed nearly 
fainting, but held out his hand to me. 

• “ ‘ Cameron,’ 'said he, speaking with great difficulty, ‘you arc 
deceived. You know not the man you call your friend. Tell 
him, however, that I forgive him, as'I hope my own soul to be 
forgiven. Tell him also, that if he consults his own safety, he 
will leave the country instantly, and as privately as possible. 
His servant, Lamont, was with me last night. I need say no 
more.’ Lord Dunallan then -fainted from the exertion of 
sjjeaking. One of his servants had gone in search of a surgeon, 
and soon returned with one from a neighboring village. With 
his assistance we had Lord Dunallan carried to his house in 
London. On recovering from his faint, he seemed very uneasy 
on seeing me still near him. ‘ Cameron,’ said he, ‘ you must 
not stay. You indeed seem unfit for such a business.* 

“ I asked his forgiveness ; ‘ I have nothing to forgive,’ replied 


1 


372 dunallan; or, 

he, ‘I never blamed you — you have been deceived. But 
you caUj do me an, essential favor, Cameron,’ added he, ‘ The 
world will suppose I met St. Clair for the purpose he wished. 
You cannot yet enter into the pain this idea gives me. I hope 
you one.,-, day will; but now, will you, a5 far as it is in your 
pow^r, make,.the truth known? Tdo not mean you to criminate 
your friend, My,. . wound was perhaps accidental.’ Pie could 
say no more. I waited impatiently to hear the opinions of the 
medical gentlemen who examined the wound .’’ Mrs. Os- 

wald read on to^ herself. : “ Go on, for heaven’s , sake, Mrs. 
Oswald ! ” exclaimed Catharine, in terror. “ Let me know all. 
I am prepared for any thing.” . . ) * 

Mrs. Oswald continued, “ Their opinion is, rthaf the wound is 
dangerous, but they j. give Jiopes of ^ his recovery, from the ap- 
parent strength of his constitution, and the known temperance 
of his habits.” i i , . ' 

“Well,” exclaimed Cathai’inc, clasping her hands together, 
“ then there still is hope ! ” She burst into tears. “ Oh my 
dear Mrs. Oswald, I do not deserve this — I feel so rebellious 
to the .will of God. ^ I cannot be resigned to — ,T cannot even 
meet the thought.” , r 

PYr a time Mrs. Oswald could only Avecp with Catharine, 
but at length reproaching herself for her sinful unwillingness 
to acquiesce in an event which, in its every circumstance, -had 
proved the strength of Dunallan’s principles, and his complete 
change of heart and character, she attempted, from such con- 
siderations, also, to soothe Catharine’s agitated feelings ; and in 
some degree succeeded. 

“Yes; whatever happens,” said Catharine, “ thost^ he leaves 
behind him will alone suifer. Death to Dunallan has no ter- 
rors. Pie looks for complete happiness only beyond the grave.” 
She became more calm and collected: and could think of his, 
departure to another world ; but internally, and fervently 
prayed that, should this be the event, she at least, might not sur- 
vive him. 

Two days passed on. The next would terminate their jour- 
Catharine had yielded to every wish of Mrs.* Oswald’-s, 


KNOW 'WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


3Z3 


except stopping on the road to sleep, and this Mrs. Oswald had 
not urged till the last day. . She then entreated her to stop for 
a few hours. 

“We shall arrive exhausted, fay Catharine. You’ will -be 
unable to meet any exertion with composure. You will be 
unable — — ” : , j.;. ,, . 

“ If he still lives, my dear Mrs. 'Oswald,” interrupted Cath- 
arine, “ and we are unable to command our feelings without rest, 
we can take it when we arrive. . If he has left us,. I wish, for iiq 
strength to bear it.” . -i.j . iM.., . j.f 

Mrs;- Oswald did not attempt to answer.fi;:, ’ ■( .!(j > 

: “You think me wrong, dear Mrs* Oswald, but bear with-me 
for a little. I I hope-.God, too,, will forgive me ; but if I, stop at 
this moment, I think my reason would be the sacHtiee.” 

“/You shall not stop, my love, -i— but recollect yourself, dear 
Catharine. You’ will not beitried beyond the strength you will 
receive to bear the trial. Attempt to trust to this, my love.” f 
- “I do — I attempt it. — ^ but I feel so hurried and confused. 
Do not speak to me, dear Mrs. Oswald.’ i. 

■ Mrsi Oswald .put her ''arms around her, and supported her 
head on her bosom ; and, worn out with fatigue and misery, she 
soon fell into a disturbed slumber, which 'gradually became more 
tranquil, till at last she really slept. Mrs. Oswald bent over her 
with feelings of the deepest anxiety.-f Catharine’s ) young and 
lovely countenance already betrayed the power of the miserable 
and anxious state of her feelings* Her pale cheek, parched 
lips, and deeply sad expression, even in sleep, filled Mrs. Oswald 
with alarm. She continued to sleep until awakened by the rat- 
tling of the carriage on the pavement as they entered the suburbs 
of London. She started up. 

“ Where are we ? ” .• • 

■i “ Myilove, we are near the end of our journey.” 

“ Thank God;” Mi's. Oswald remained silent while Cath- 
arine raised her heart' to heaven, imploring support. 

The streets, crowded with people and carriages, seemed end- 
less. 

“ And this is London ! ” said Catliarine *, “ and here I once 

32 . , 


874 


dunallan; or, ■v,'\ 

thought all was pleasure. How gloomy it looks ! how large ! 
How much misery it must contain ! . Are we still distant from 
Square ? ” . 

Yes ! still two or three miles'.” i 

Catharine remained silent, but quite composed. The carriage 
drove rapidly on. At last an attendant, who had rode forward, 
whs 'now seen returning. The carriage;^ stopped. 

“‘My lord is considered better to-day,” said the man, joy- 
fully, and the carriage immediately proceeded as rapidly as 
possible. Mrs: Oswald audibly returned thanks to heaven. 
Catharine became faint for a moment, but was soon relieved by 
tears. Slie took Mrs. Oswald’s hand: “ God has had pity on 
me, dear Mrs. Oswald, he has heard 'my prayer, evil and' rebel- 
lious as I am.” o h’ ,; ! 1 

‘‘ The carriage at last ‘stopped ; Clanmar and his' amiable wife 
received Mrs. Oswald and Catharine at ’ tlie door of. 1 the 
house. ' ■ . -li.ri/ ■ . 

“Lord Dunallan is better to-day/’ said Mrs. Clanmar, imme- 
diately, and embracing Catharine. ' . ; 

“ Is he considered out of danger ? V asked Mrs. Oswald, 
eagerly. ■’ ■ • i ' , { 

Mrs. Clannnu* was silent, and looked at her husband. 

“Tell us the truth, Mr. Clanmar,” said Catharine, faintly. 
“Your arrival, madam, will, I hope, hasten his . recovery. 
His anxiety on your account has increased the danger of fever, 
which is the thing most to bo dreaded.” ’ ..;;j , . 

“ He cannot know of our' arrival, Mrs. Clanmar,” said Cath- 
arine, leading her aside. “'Does he expect us ? When may 
we see him ? ” • ,, i « 

“ He did not expect you for several days still,” replied Mrs. 
Clanmar. “ When your servant arrived, about half an hour 
ago, his doctor was consulted whether he might be infoi-nied of 
3mur arrival. * The doctor said he certainly might ; and Mr. 
Walderford is at this moment preparing him to ’see you. AVhen- 
ever Mr. Walderford returns, I am sure you will- be allowed to 
go to him.” ■ 

Catharine' listened impatiently for Walderford’s approach. ' At 
last he entered the room, accompanied by the doctor. 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


375 


“ Is Dunallan able tor see us ? ” asked Mrs. Oswald, immedi- 
ately, “ or ought we to delay ? ” . 

, The doctor replied in a cheerful tone of voice, “ AVe did not 
know ourselves, madam, that you were actually arrived ; we 
supposed you on the road ; ” then looking first at Catharine, and 
then at Mrs. Oswald, “ it depends entirely on yourselves, ladies, 
whether your presence may be of the greatest use, or the con- 
trary, to Lord Dunallan.” 

. You may trust us, I believe, doctor,” replied Catharine, at- 
tempting to appear composed. 

He bowed. “ AYhat I mean, madam, is, that emotion of any 
kind, would, in Lord Dunallan’s present state, be highly inju- 
rious : but I know I need say no more : and the quiet which is 
absolutely necessary for him wifi be more perfectly secured by 
you than by any one else. If you please I shall now go with 
you to liis apartment. Mr. AYalderford will precede us, and 
when he has informed his lordship that, you are here, we will 
leave you with him.” < . : , . ^ 

Catharine assented ; and, suppressing emotions, which at 
anqtlier time would have been too powerful for,, her, followed 
AYalderford and Mrs. Oswald to the apartment where Dunallan 
lay. They entered, and the doctor stopped them near the door. 
Catharine stood, scareely daring to breathe. Dunailan’s cur- 
tains were closed on tlie side next to her, and the room was 
dark and sombre and still. > AA^alderford stepped softly to . the 
other side. Catharine listened for Dunallan’s voice, }'et when 
he spoke her emotion became so violent that she trembled in 
every limb, and her heart beat almost to sufibcation. His 
voice was low and calm, but he seemed to speak with great 
difficulty. 

‘I AA^alderford, again ! my kind friend.” ■ 

“ I returned, Dunallan, to see >vhat effect my last information 
.had upon you. How do you feel, my friend ? ” 

“ Oh, AYalderford, I find my heart is still sadly bound to life. 
AYlien I think of Catharine, and this new proof of her afiection 
for me, I shrink from death.” His voice changed as he spoke. 

The doctor ap{)roached, “My dear Lord Dunallan, you know 
I prescribe cheerful conversation.” 


376 


DUNALLAN; OR, 


“ I did not know you were present, doctor.” 

“ You must reserve your strength, my lord, to converse with 
Lady Dunallaii and Mrs. Oswald, who, I dare say, will not istop 
on the road.” . • 

“ Oh, I trust they will,” replied Dunallan, earnestly. 

• “ Are you prepared to meet Lady Dunallan, my lord ? You 

have commanded me to tell you the truth. ’ I again repeat that 
your recovery depends on your avoiding all emotion.” . 

“T am preparedito attempt to follow your prescriptions, doc- 
tor ; but my recovery, dear sir, depends on God.” 

Dear Dunallan,” whispered Mrs.’ Oswald. ‘ ' 

“My dear friend,” said AYaldeiford, “ we wish to prepare 3^011 
to see Lady Dunallan.” * “ ’ 

“ Well, my friend, I am prepared. Catharine cannot be al- 
ready come ! Walderford, she is not here ?” . 

“ She is, Dunallan.” ’ ' ' ^ 

' “ Heavenly Father, support us both,” prayed Dunallan, fer- 

vently. Catharine, as she now approached, pale, but composed, 
breathed the same prayer. 

“ No emotion,” whispered the doctor, as with Walderford he 
passed to quit the room. 

“ My Catharine ! my aunt ! Oh, }'ou have been too, too kind. 
You have travelled too * rapidly,” said Dunallan, as they ap- 
proached. 

“'No, no, dear Dunallan,” said Mrs. Oswald have 

received the strength we required. Do not think of us.” Cath- 
arine could not speak, nor did she venture to raise her eyes to 
Dunallan’s face ; but taking the hand he held out to her, she 
pressed her forehead upon it, and in vainhittempted to suppress 
her tears. 

“ My love — my dearest, kindest Catharine,” said Dunallan, 
“ hoAV shall I express my gratitude to you ? ” 

“ Dunallan,” replied Catharine, struggling to suppress her 
feelings, “ you must say nothing kind to me. We must excite 
no emotions. Forget, Dunallan, that I am any thing but your 
nurse.” - 

“ But, my Catharine, my aunt, why have you travelled so 


KNOW WHAT you JUDGE. 


377 


rapidly ? Who attended you ? Who suffered you ? Have you 
never stopped ? ” . 

. Catharine looked up to reply to Dunallan’s questions, but on 
seeing his altered ^ looks,, was unable to proceed. Dunallan 
smiled. “ Do not be alarmed, my Catharine. Loss of blood 
makes one always look dreadfully ill. That is all, my love. I 
do not suffer much.” .... . • 

Catharine burst into tears, and turned away to conceal them. 
Dunallan held her hand. “ My Catharine, we must find cour- 
age to see things as they are. We must venture to look to the 
future. Do not struggle thus to suppress your feelings.” 

“Oh Dunallan, do not exhaust yourself thus!” exclaimed 
Catharine, in a voice of agony, as he spoke with extreme diffi- 
culty. “ I entreat you, seek repose. Mrs. Oswald and I shall 
watch by you.” 

“rNo, my Catharine, you and my aunt must need repose. I 
must now send you from me. Those pale looks distress mo. 
Leave me to AValderford. When you have rested, and return 
to me, I shall have many things to say to you, which ought to 
be said while I am able.? 

Catharine started. 

“ My love,' you must know the truth. I am not yet out of 
danger. There is still either another ball or some fragment of 
my dress in the wound, and until that is extracted I cannot re- 
cover. This will be attempted as soon as I am thought in a 
state to bear it — perhaps to-morrow. It will not be painful, my 
love,” added Dunallan, on observing that Catharine shuddered, 
“ but it may not succeed. I therefore wish to say all I ought 
to say to you as soon as we have had repose.- “Let us all, for 
each other’s sakes, really seek that repose.” 

Dunallan became himself affected deeply, and Catharine, 
unable' longer to suppress her feelings, clasped his hand in 
agony for a moment,- and- then hurried from him; Dunallan 
entreated his, aunt iinmediately to follow her. : a '< ;■ 

“ Oh, Mrs. Oswald ! ’’ exclaimed Catharine, “ he is ill — ill 
indeed!” and instantly fainted. 

32 ^ 


378 


DUNALLAN ; OR, 


On recovering, she found herself in bed, and Mrs. Oswald 
and Mrs. Clanmar hanging anxiously over her. 

“ My kind friends,” said she, “ how I plague you all. Mrs. 
Oswald, you.*must not stay with me. You need rest. You 
have promised to- seek' it.” ' 

“Yes, dear Catharine, let us, both really seek that rest, both 
for body and soul, which will lit us for whatever is before us.” 

Catharine embraced Mrs. Oswald. “ Leave me,' then, dear- 
est madam, and I shall truly attempt to do so. After this, noth- 
ing shall separate me from him, I hope for ever.” 

Catharine’s friends willingly 'consented to leave her; but 
when alone, Dunallan’s countenance was again before her, — 
so languid, so heavenly the expression, as he lay unable to 
move from pain and weakness. “ He cannot recover,” thought 
she, giving way to the anguisli she had struggled to suppress in 
his presence. She thought with terror of what he might yet 
have to suffer. vShe could find no hope, no refuge, no rest, but ' 
in prayer. She fervently implored resignation to the Divine 
will — and for power to overcome her selfish feelingSj and to be 
a support and ’ comfort to Dunallan, whatever might be the 
event, instead of a source of anxiety and grief. Her thoughts 
became elevated as she prayed. The nothingness of the things 
of time, compared with those of eternity, appeared so clearly 
as almost to surprise her. She almost longed to depart — to be 
taken with Dunallan. “But was she prepared for this?” -She 
trembled as the thought struck her, that love for a fellow-creature 
led her to desire to die. She prayed with fervor that her heart * 
might be delivered from such earthliness, and devoted supremely ’ 
to its Creator, so as to love him above all human love, — and 
something seemed to whisper that Dunallan’s death must be the 
means. • 

After many tears and much humiliation of heart, she at ' 
length could from the heart say, “ Thy will be done,” and 
from that moment felt in some measure calm and collected 
and resigned, and soon sunk into that repose she had promised 
to seek. - . ' . : ' 


KNOW WHAT. YOU JUDGE. 


379 


It was early next morning before Catharine awoke. She in- 
stantly rose, and after fervently asking for ^ help from Heaven, 
left her room to go in search of some one from whom she might 
hear, of -Dunallan. She met Mrs. Oswald on the stairs. “ I 
was coming to you, Catharine.” ■ 

“ You have seen; Du nallan, dear Mrs. Gsw^ald.” '* ‘ 

“ Yes, my love, I have just been with him. He has slept, 
and is, I think, less uneasy this morning."*. He wilf not allow me 
to mention the word suffering to him. He says he has cause 
only for thankfulness.” it ; * 

“ Dear Dunallan ! ” said Catharine, her eyes filling. 

. “You, my love, must how be his nurse,'his constant nurse. 
He has received my promise that I shall devote my time and 
cares to the wretched Harcourt.” ^ . >--1 • ■ 

“ Harcourt,” repeated Catharine, “ I had forgot his existence. 
Is he not in this house?” ' ; 

“ He is, ray love, and a source of the’ deepest anxiety ' to 
Dunallan. He is very ill, in the • last stage of consumption, 
but his mind, Mr. ^Walderford tells Dunallan, is as vividly 
acute, and as dark and miserable as ever. Dunallan will not 
give up attempting to enlighten this darkness, and- has proved 
to me that I ought to leave him to the care of the many friends 
heaven has bestowed upon him, and devote my every moment 
to watch over, and attempt every means in my power, while 
life remains,' -to bring this forsaken, wretehed., but immortal 
being, to Ihe hope of Christianity. But-now,‘imy love, let us 
return to Dunallan’s room, and I shall show you the arrange- 
ments I have been making.” , 

Catharine then followed Mrs. Oswald, who softly entered a 
small apartment, one door* of which opened into the room 
where Dunallan lay. The arrangements in this outer apart- 
ment proved how well Mrs. Oswald had been accustomed to 
sickness. ‘ Nothing seemed to be forgot that could possibly be 
wanted. Mj-s. Oswald softly opened the door into Dunallan’s 
apartmeJit. Catharine followed. His attendant retired on their' 
approach, and Mrs. Oswald motioned to Catharine to' take his 
place. Dunallan again slept, and Mrs. Oswald, after watching- 


380 


dunallan; or, 


his slumbers for some minutes, wliispered to Catharine, I am 
certain he., is better. I see no cause of alarm here. Now, my 
love, I leave him to you. Remember, composure and cheer- 
fulness are the best qualities of a nurse.’^ She kissed Catha- 
rine’s cheek, and then softly stole away. 

Catharine continued to watch her patient, scarcely daring to 
move or to breathe lest she should disturb him : but attempting 
to raise her thoughts and to rest her trust in Heaven. 

Dunallan’s sleep at last became disturbed, and an expression 
of pain for a moment contracted his brow. Catharine rose 
hastily, and bent anxiously over him. It passed away, and his 
countenance again resumed its heavenly mildness of expression. 
Soon, however, it was; again disturbed, and, attempting to move, 
he awoke. He started on seeing Catharine, and a flush of 
pleasure crossed his brow. 

“ You are in pain, Dunallan.” ' . 

“No! my Catharine; at this moment I only feel pleasure. 
Have you, my love, had repose ? ” ' r 

“ Oh yes I and now, Dunallan, I am to be your constant 
nurse^ and , neither of us must think of any thing but your get- 
ting well. At this moment I prescribe more repose. It was 
pain which awoke you.” She arranged the pillows wdiich sup- 
ported him, while ho)looked at her with an expression of mel- 
ancholy pleasure, : •. ; : Hi: /(' . ’ 

“What ease you have given me, my .beloved nurse!” ' i 
, “ You must remember we arei. to avoid all emotion, Dun- 
allan.’V . .. ; . ■ ( , 

“Yes, dearest Catharine, if possible : but while I have 
strength, I must say , what I wish to you.” 

“ Say those wishes in one word, then, dear Dunallan.” 

“ I shall, my Catharine. I still think L may recover ; but 
should I not, I must leave you, Catharine, without an earthly 
protector, but your own prudence. This thought is almost 
insupportable to me, but in this I am wrong, and I hope I have 
at last been enabled to leave you to His almighty care in whom 
I hope you trust. Beware, my Catharine, of St. Clair. ’ He is 
a desperate character. There is, I fear, nothing of which he 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


381 


is not capable. I dare scarcely think of what you may be ex- 
posed to from his violent and selfish attachment to you.^’ 

“Do /not fear, my dear iDunallan,” interrupted Catharine* 
“ We shall not be separated. I shall need ho protector. God 
will hear my prayers. Do not seek to prepare me for an ex- 
istence I, could not endure for a day. I feel it, -Dunallan — we 
shall not be separated ! She spoke with a melancholy energy, 
which almost overcame Dunallan. He, however, struggled to 
regain composure, and proceeded. ^ 

“I shall not dispute this with you,; my Catharine, but you 
may be mistaken ; and if so you will have a melancholy pleas- 
ure in remembering your friend’s last wishes.” • • - 

Catharine could not suppress her! tears, and bent down her 
head to conceal them ; while -Dunallan proceeded to inform her 
of his wishes respecting herself — respecting Mrs. Oswald and 
the children — respecting his people at Arnmore. 

“ I have been unable to assist you by writing any explanation 
of my views, but I believe you will be able to. comprehend from 
my papers all that is necessary. All the influence that was 
committed to us, with regard to these people, is now left to you, 
my Catharine; all is now yours; you have' much in'» your 
power ; much good ; remember this, my love. And now, my 
beloved, too much beloved Catharine, there is still another thing 
I must say — God will not suffer idols. My- own. heart has 
been guilty before, diim i in this, but i I will . say. no more. .We 
must be taught to love him more rthan each other,, however pain- 
ful the lesson. ' ' ■> 

“ And now, my Catharine, I have only to speak of myself. I 
have but one other grief in leaving the world, besides that of 
being separated from those who are dearer to me than self-— 
this grief is the appearance of my consenting to meet St. Clair. 
This, I fear, may injure the cause of religion ; but this is God’s 
own cause, and I must leave it in his hands. Join your prayers 
with mine, my dear Catharine, that I may not be the unhappy 
means of bringing reflections on religion. 

“ I have now, my love, said all I wish, but this that my 

soul is ia perfect peace. I have no fears as to the future — I 


882 


DUN ALLAN ; OR, 


find the truths I believed while death seemed at a- distance, com- 
pletely suited to support me in the immediate prospect of appear- 
ing before God; my confidence increases ; my Surety is suf- 
ficient. There is no condemnation to them who believe in him 
for their whole salvation. My heart would still delay in this 
world for the sake of one idol, but 1 would be miserable even 
with- that idol, were she to lead me to forget one duty to him 
who gave his life to save us, I* have" prayed that our affections 
might be so regulated, that- we might live and serve him 
together; but I wash humbly to resign my will to his; I would 
say, — separate us not, oh God — let us together enter on our 
new state of existence — or together love thee supremely, arid 
seek to glorify thee by our lives on earth. But I know not 
what is best — I know not whatHie may see necessary, that he 
may purifytus for himself.*’ ' 

Dnnallan stopped, greatly exhausted. * 

Catharine did not raise her head. Dunallan’s 'last words 
had elevated her thoughts to heaven in earnest supplications for 
him and for herself, that they- might be willing to submit to the 
will of God ; that she might be enabled to overcome her sinful 
terror for what he should see fit to send, and be ready to receive 
every dispensation as immediately from the love ‘of a father — 
the kind, merciful discipline of * a Saviour. She was greatly 
agitated, and sobbed aloud. Dunallan'did not for a time inter- 
rupt her. At last, laying his hand -gently on her head, 

^‘My Catharine/’ said^he, in a broken voice, “eur separation 
cannot be long, should it be necessary. Let us think of the 
eternity we shall enjoy together ; time, my love, compared to 
that, is- nothing. Devote yourself, my Catharine, to more earnest 
preparation for that state ; lay open your heart to your heavenly 
.Teacher-^ wait on him till he moulds it to his will — till he 
moulds its affections and desires to rest in himself — and then, 
even in this world, you will be able to say, ‘ that it was good for 
you to be afflicted.’ And when we meet in another — ah, Cath- 
arine, what will be my- joy !■ How real that world appears to 
me at this moment!” 

Oh that I could do as you wish ^ — that I could feel resigned 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


383 


to the will of God ! ” exclaimed Catharine, earnestly, and clasp- 
ing Dunallan’s hand in hers. 

“'He will regard your wish, my love,” replied Dimallan;, 
“and now, my Catharine, you must also be my soul’s nurse. 
I have been unable to read. Walderford has hitherto read to me 
— now, my love,* I shall trust to you.” 

“ But, Dunallan, you are fatigued ; you must rest a little ! ” 

“I will, my sweet nurse; now you shall prescribe to me.” 
Catharine seated herself by him while he remained silent, his 
eyes mildly fixed upon her. She watched every varying ex- 
pression of his countenance. She changed his supporting pillows, 
so as to relieve the weariness of weakness, and the pain of his 
wound ; and, as he was able to listen, she read or repeated pas-, 
sages of Scripture calculated to carry the thoughts beyond 
death, and all that- is on this side the grave. Her own mind 
became more calm and resigned and elevated. 

The day passed away. The doctor was to come again in the 
evening, and as the hour approached, Catharine began to listen 
eagerly to every footstep. At last he came, and Catharine 
retired while he dressed his patient’s wound. She watched for 
his leaving Dunallan’s room, and, taking him apart, entreated 
him to tell her the whole truth. ' 

“My lord has less fever to-night, madam. To-morrow I 
think we may examine the wound.” 

“ I know what you mean, doctor ; that will be painful and 
dangerous.” 

“ I hope not, madam. Lord Dunallan has an admirable 
constitution, and as for pain, in all ■ my practice, I never saw 
any one endure it with such fortitude. His religion never for- 
sakes him. He seems to find cause forjgratitude even in pain. 
When I ask him if I make him suffer, he replies, smiling, 
’Jt is not you, doctor; it is a physician of even deeper skill, but 
who cannot err.’ He always answers me in this kind ot way.” 
Catharine’s eyes filled with tears. 

“ But, doctor, in usual cases, would the examination you talk 
of be dangerous ? ” 

“ Not the examination, madam, but the consequences. But, 


,384 


• dunallan; or, 


madam, Lord i-Dunallan teaches -us our duty. We shall use 
those means wliich appear proper to us, and leave the conse-: 
quenees with God. The future, madam, is wisely coneealed 
from us; presenti duty is plain.” ' 

“True, doctor; you are right, perhaps right in not -satisfying 
me. In the mean time you prescribe complete quiet.” 

“Yes, madam, for my lord; and for yourself a whole night 
of repose. You will then, I think, be able for the fatigue which 
is before you. After to-morrow, undisturbed quiet will be ab-) 
solutely necessary for Lord Dunalian. You, juadain, will be 
Ins most careful nurse.” . f 

Catharine returned- to Dunalian without trusting herself to 
think. ' The doctor had not taken all hope away; yet his con- 
versation, from its uncertainty, had left an unhappy impression. 
She could form no opinion regarding the future from what he 
liad said, and she shrunk from the attempt. 

Dunallan’s languid eyes, brightened with pleasure on Catha- 
rine’s return. Walderford was with him, and rose to retire on . 
her entrance. « 

“Do not go, jMr. Walderford,” said she, gently, “Dunalian 
will regret my arrival, if I chase away all his friends.” 

“Walderford is to be with me during the night, my dear 
Catharine,” said Dunalian, “ 5^11 look reproachfully at me. 
Do you think it possible I should reeov^er, if I saw you worn 
out by attending on me ? I have so many kind friends willing 
to be with me, that I hope I shall be able to manage so as to 
fatigue no one. Where is Clanmar, Walderford? I liave not 
seen him since the morning.” . j,. .. ^ 

Waldei-ford hesitated “He is —there is an exam- 

ination going on in some law court, Mdiich, I believe, he has been 
obliged to attend.” ' ; 

Dunalian* looked fixedly at his. friend, “ Is St. Clair concerned 
in. that examination, Walderford?” . r. 

“ St; Clair has left the country,” replied Walderford, and 
then hastily left the room, saying he would return in an hour or 
two. ,, , 

Dunalian became very thoughtful. Catharine held his hand 


KNOW WIIAT YOU JUDGE. 


38.5 


in hers, and anxiously watched the darkening expression of hi* 
countenance.^!'' * '■> •' " ■ (.' i 'iA - i ■ ; "i .lih. > 

:^‘My dear ‘'Dunallan, may I ask what is the subject of your 
thoughts ? I fear it is ‘some painful one. ‘ Is it St.i Glair ? ” i ‘ ‘ 

• “ It is, my love.”f''‘'‘b‘ ) -k iI-.' i . ! i< !! . i j.jiii )> . 

‘^But, Dunalhin, should '"we not wish the' truth in- this lionid 
affair to be known ^ ‘ .> cv - ^ ; 

‘‘ Perhaps we ought ; but, my love, were all the truth known,* 
the consequences to St. Clair would he more serious' than either 
of" us would choose to anticipate.*’^ Claiimar this morning asked' 
to see 'the note which had induced me to go to — ^Farm' hii 
that morning I met St. Clair. Will -you, my 'Catharinej oblige 
me, by looking whether he replaced it'ih my waiting case ?'” ^ 

’ 'Catharine searched in vain>f 3 r'the note. 

‘‘ I see how it'is ! ” exclaimed' Dunallan, with much eniotion. 
“ I pray God that the unhappy St.' Clair may have indeed left 
the country.’* ’’ ! iioi/.itt; >; :•!(•;! ;i ’ ■ l;-i, aMc .- ) .il/. " 

!i‘.‘ My dear' Dunallan, you wilp'hurt yoin-self by this eniotiom' 
AVliy Avill you — why should you be so deeply 'interested abbUt 
one who is so wicked — so horiibiy revengeful ? ■ I dare not think 
of him-. — - ** ;iM ..r'i, Jii! • • i"'- • 

“ You must try to overcome those feelings, my Catharine, and* 
from ! your heart forgive himi You <[lo' not know, my ‘love, hbw 
much there is to dread. St. Clair’s servant came to me the night 
before I 'last saw'him^ and offered 'to^ make me acquainted with 
all the means* u4ed to intercept your 'letters. The 'man had for-' 
meiiy been my servant, and said his consci^ice would® give hinf 
no rest for ha\ing‘been‘induced by bribery to injure me.‘ ' At that’ 
time I' felt' unwilling to"' listen to 'him; “'I' had just declined 
answering St'. Clair’S challenge. I'therbfore assured'the' man 
of my forgiveness,* On condition he'’nvould never, without my 
permission, mentiob ’ the matter to any one. He left me, 
however, muttering revenge against his master, for some personal 
ill treatment.” ' '"i'- n I 

But now, my dear Dunallan, banish, I entreat you, this horrid 
subject from your thoughts.” ' 

“No, my dearest Catharine; whatever isHn our power we 

33 


386 


1>UNALLAN J OK, 


ought to do, and niiuit do immediutely, my lovo. Will you, a ly 
Catharine, go to Mrs. Claiimar, and endeavor to discover: every 
particular of this business for me? You mustjaot coilsidbi- me 
incapablfe of - iMirforming any duty while I live. I $haU at least 
attempt it. It will not hurt me, dear Catharine. Miscx'able St 
Clair ! I hope he is in ;safety somowhere out of the coUutryr - 
Catharine attempted to dissuade Dunallan from Jiis purpose^ 
but in vain. . ■ 

“ You are mistaken, dearest Catharine. It will not hurt me 
to know the truth.. If I can do nothingul shall be at . rest ; . but 
I; trust that you, my other ^elf? my wife, will not deceive; me.” : 

Catharine left Dunallan, intending to go immediately to; Mrs. 
Clanmar’s house* She found, however; that both she ami Mi 4 
Clanmar were at that moment engaged with Mrs. OswaldifuiShe 
immediatel}" joined them. Walderford was also present,! and 
the party Stood close together^ apparently in deepi conversation. 

“Mr. Cliinmar,” said Catharine anxiously, “ has ^any thing 
unpleasant happened ;? Dunallan is determined to kno\V all. 
What happened ? ”1 ; , i - ; / i ■ / ' 

! “ Nothing of any importance^ imy dear madam. Do liot be 
alarmed. I shall go and inform Dunallan of eveiy thing,” and- 
he immediately left the room. , . . , ^ - 1 • 

Cathai'ine then entreated Mrs. Oswald to tell her whatihad 
passed. ■ . 

“ You do not understand law matters any better ■ than I <fo, 
my dear Catharme,” replied Mrs, Dswald; d^.but I shallitcdl 
you exactly * what I understood ; Mr. ' Clamnai’ to say, ; Mr. S t. 
Clair’s servant went two days ago, to a magistrate,! and offered 
to give some extraordinai'y information respecting i the calise of 
the meeting between Dunallan and St. Claicj which had been 
the wonder of the day, /JMi*. Chinmaa* said^- from Dunallaids- 
known principles. From some .thitigs said jhy tho: servant, and 
also from some reports in cireulatipn,. orders: were issued^ by the 
proper authorities to search for, and take into custody, Mr. St, 
Clair and Mr, Caiperqn. The datter, who had not left the 
country, immediately gave himself up, and is at large on bail. 
St. Clair, has not been he^rd of. To-day Mi\ Clanmar under- 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


387 

went an examination on the' subject;!* ’ Mr. Cameron was also 
examined, aiidhis evidence went *greatly to' criminate 'St. Clair, 
wlio^ however, is sup^DOsed by every one to have left the Coun- 
tiy ; and this examination will, I , trust, > have iio other conse- 
quence than that ‘ of! 'clearing i Bunallan’s’- character. Indeed 
Mr. Clanmar says it'has^^ cleared it already’; for though the 
examination was called a private one, the 'Court was crowded 
to excess.-! Am 'I; correct; Mri'dValddrford?^’ asked Mrs’.Os- 

wald.gli'!:- ; 1?! ■; i V -I ■ idl ■>' ’ i iiti 

Perfectly' SO, madam.”! ! ii-ii y ' if’ ‘ > 

‘‘What. would be the ' consequence, Mr. WaldCi-ford,” asked 
Catharincjb^ werei'Mr. St. Glair Still- in Uhe country? for Dun- 
allan is quite miserable, Ifrom the appa^ehension that' he may ’not 
have I escaped.”.* 5 - >.i' h. >;i r; // . 

hi ‘f Were all the charges pi*oved against him,” replied Walder- 
ford, ‘^'Mri St. Clairpin intention, 'is a murderer, ahd would ‘ be 

considered' so in law.” 'U -i ll ( 'f. ‘iiti; 

Catharine Shuddered. ' ■*‘ Can Dnnallan,' in any way, lessen 
hisiappearance of'guilt ^ h' ! '< 

. i I' think it imposfeiblep madam, that he can. ‘ Mr. Cameron, 
when on :oath,. said, that he believed* Mri St. Clair* dnfended to 
fire,iand that he did* not cause diim to do So by touching his arm. 
Clanmar did not* exactly see the ti'ansaction, neither,' I suppose, 
could 'Punallan.” '•*' hnii'm sjI :•» ].i; j 'I 
;; “*Oh, I 'hope fornPunallan’s sake, that he may indeed have 
escaped ! exclaimed Catharine; and may he never, never re- 
turn,nhdrridp wretched being! Do you really think he is gone, 
Mr..Walderfbrd>?” . ' n.- : *ilr ni iil;- /. r I ■■■ 

. 1 1 ‘.f i Gef taintyj /madam,' d believe^ bl i certainly, there can be no 
doubt/of it,”'added he. j -D ./I lu t"' ■.> ..'n! “i 

ti 'Catharine, aftefi spending a short' timd in convei*sation with 
jMrs;'Oswaldy returned to Dunallan. He appea;red excessively 
fijrave.nn-;' nlina j: !«> < YJ-.'f ifi n V'-! i"-*'! 'ii- * 'd . n -im 
, I havb been 'right, 'Catharine.”** d' i’i'ii'i ‘ ' -* 

:i!“. Yes, Dunallan, but nothing ds in your power. You pro- 
mised that if. this was tli,e case you would attempt to banish the 
subject from your though't^” : i- >ti? - v : ‘ 


a88 


DUN ALL an; ok, 


I will jnake the attempt, at least, now— -rir ” 

Glanmar left the room. Dnnallan seemed greatly exhausted, 
and .Catharine sat silently and anxiously by hini for the next 
It^mr — and the*i, after many entreaties on his, part, left him 
to the care of ^alderfoixl and his own attendants. ; : But this 
i§ ifh^ last time you must ask me to leave you, my friend,” said 
she, “ for I cannot again consent.” , 

, Catherine retired to her apartment, wishing, if possible, to 
strengthen herself by repose for every exertion ; and struggling 
to banish every painful thought, she laid herself to sleep. ' ^ For | 
some time, however, the attempt was vain. At last tired nature 
overcame her harassed mind, and she sunk gradually into 
profound repose. Towards morning she dreamed she was at 
Arnmore. Dunallan was there also, and they together enjoyed 
the; freshness of the opening spring. She saw its beautiful 
scenery, as she had seen it on her first arrival there, but. she 
conversed Avith Dunallan as her friend and husband. Sim 
awoke, and could not, for a' moment, recollect where she was, 
so deeply had she been absorbed in her delightful di’eam. The 
truth, so : painfully, different,: sooni returned to her recollection, 
and; ,lter heart sickened at the contrast. She started from her 
pillpw, and, withdrew the curtain which screened her. apartment 
from the i rays of a clouded sun. She looked from the 
window, but instead of the luxuriant scenery of her dream, 
slie ; saw only the miserable and stunted shrubs of a 
London garden. It was still early; but after seeking 
strength and consolation from , heaven, she determined to go 
to Dunallan. All was still in the house. She softly entered 
the room- next Dunallan’s. The door into : his was half open. 
She approached cautiously. All was quiet. : Mrs. Oswald and 
"VYalderford were in the room. Mrs. Oswald was. seated with 
her back, toivards her. No light .had yet beep admitted into the 
apartment, but she read by the dim rays of a night lamp, and, 
as she cautiously turned the leaf, looked earnestly at Dunallan ; 
then ggain began to. read. Catharine saw that her patient 
slept,; and , earnestly prayed that his repose might continud^ and 
be blessed. She softly retired from the door, and seated herself 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


389 


near ii, tliat she might watch his slumbers, and pray for him 
and for herself. His sleep, continued. It seemed i as if her 
prayers were heard. She felt a holy calm of soul, and; kneeled 
dofvn to express hbr hutnble gratitude and trust. She continued 
on her knees- — light and peace following her fervent- supplica- 
tions, and elevating- her affections to the ‘Source of all good, of 
all purity, 'of alMiappiness. At hist Hunallan spoke, and Cath- 
arine was instantly near him: She inquired with earnest ten- 
derness how he had slept?* How he felt ? Dunallan’s replies- 
Were even beyond her hopes, and she' read in his countenance 
the ease and refreshment- he said hb had received from sleep. 
His own looks expressed the calm and elevated state of his 
feelings. - ^ i ; f 

“My friend,” said Dunallan to AValderford, “you must not 
leave us, till you have expressed'our gi*atitude to Heaven.” Wal- 
derford immediately kneeled down. ' Cathai-ine and Mrs. Oswald 
kneeled 'also, Avhile ^ Walderford |:>ou red -forth, in touching 
language,' the very felings and 'desires of their souls. When 
he rose from his knees, he took leave of 'Dunallan with almost 
a woman’s softness.’ “ You must allow nle to be with you to-day, 
Dunallan.”'" ’’ ’ ' . : ' M ' -.J- j 

“ Well, my friend, you shall have your wish ; but I require 
no earthly support, believe me.” ■ . i 

Catharine knew what Walderford alluded to, and Avhfen he 
was gone, expressed the satisfaction she felt in thinking he 
would be present. 

“ It gives me only pain, my Catharine,” said Dunallan i; “yet 
I know were I in his place I should feel as She does, therefore I 
do not object, tliough I believe he will suffer more in supposing 
I suffer, than I I'eallyWill. But this, my love, is none of the 
attendants of Warm jiffectibns On this side thergravee * K time 
is coming, my Catharine, when we may love and* be loved, with- 
out fear of suffering, or excess, 'or changei”- '/ e ' 'i 
“ Yes, my dear Dunallan, and I feel how selfish it is to be so 
unwillihg'to think that happy time may possibly be near for only 
one of us. Were it for both — Oh how I couM 'welcome it ! ” 

H ..| li'i 33 * : i li -i : 


390 


DUNALLAN j OH, 


“ Could you, my love liave you lu) fears— -no doubts r^r 
specting the future ?; 1’ , ' 

Ought I to have fears or doubts, Dunallan ? Tell me truly. 
Do you think I deceive myself? Dp you think I have not ^ 
right foundation of liope ? ” .,j . : 

I hope you have, my love — trust you rest on tlie Rock of 
Ages ^ the ohly refuge for any , soul — but I feel anxious, my 
Catharine. : Love for me — for auy created good is not the 
motive which ought to excite your desires after another wprjd, 
You would believe and feel this, my Catharine, were you, as I 
am, more certain of death than of life. Preparation for death, 
my love, must consist in such devoted love to our Divine, Master, 
as would also be the best preparation for life, were he to will 
that. I speak plainly, my Catharine.; If you knew how I love 
yoih? you would forgive me even your . s\veet expressions of 
affection pain me, when they seem qonfuaetJ with what ought to 
he superior to all earthly affections, i My Catharine, the human 
h(wt,' even on this side the grave, is capable of feelings whiph 
no created , being can ; inspire, : Believe this; I say it from jny 
own experience. You know I would not deceive you at suph a 
moment. Should we be separated, my clearest of earthly beings, 
remembet' this,” : ^ . 

Dunallan became exhausted, but after a few moments pause, 
turned to Mrs. Oswald, my dear aunt, did you tell llarcourt 
my wish?:?’ • ■ 

“ I did, Dunallan, and he is impatient to agree to it.” 

“ And you think he is able ? ” 

‘‘Quite iso; but, dear Dunallan, there is no , change in Har- 
court. : .He has, as yet, no power at times over the horror of his 
feelings, and is still nearer the, grave ; than when you saw: him.; 
Ought youj .when perfect quiet , has been prescribed, tp expose, 
yourself to the' emotion he, may excite ? ” 

“ Dunallan, what are you going to do?” asked Catharine m 
alarm.' : 

“ A plain- duty, my love. . I wish; once more, while I have 
strength, to see Hai*coui t. After the examination of my wound 
I shall not be able, even if I should recover, till perhaps too late 


KNOAV WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


301 


for him. It is jyofesible litii might listen to one, pdrlmps ^i's hear 
death as himself.” i ' , 

Githarine hiixiously attempted td- dissuade t)uiiallah fronl his 
plumose, but without success ; add Mis. Osw'ald left the room to 
assist in fulfilling his wishes. 

“Mnse we leave you \^ith Mi^ HaiOoiiid ? ’riaske4:OAth^H^^^ 
anxiouslj^ • ' ' ,,, , 

'• Yes, my love ! I dould* not fepeiik its' I vrish tO ’him' before- 
witnesses, — and my Catharine, wheh yoit ieturh to me; 'if I can 
find heart to do it, I shall try to chide 'if Ou 'fOr joining dven 
with my aunt ih attempting to make' hie more carethl about my 
own ease, for an hour in this ■ woiddj than abouti that of another’s' 
soul during eternity.”' ^ 

Dunallan’s servant and another attendant now entered, and 
softly placed a SOfa near Dunallates -bed, ort whidi they arranged 
pillows for Harcoiiit. Catharine ' felt ' half ati-Uid to se^ him^ 
and now listened "anxiously for his ' ajiproach, 1 wh-ilo ^DUn-. 
allan' seemed collecting' hiS' thoiights before ' meeting Mm. At 
last Mrs. OsWakl entered, and Catharine’s eyes 'Wei’e' anxiously 
bent iii the direction where HUrcourt Would appear.' A\rheh he^ 
did, oilO glanOe nt his' countenance confirmed the fearful dim 
pression she had received of the awful gloom of hiy= mihd. 
Harcouft Walked into- the' room,' feuppoited by two attendants. 
His tall figure wds emaciated to the last degree'— ^ his face equal- 
ly so. ’ His eyes Were hollow, knd liis fealib’es shrunk in the 
thinilCsS' of apprOaelling.' death, while the expi-essioiv of: 'his 
cOuritenanee' Was so awfully serious, and hiS ' breathing, Us the 
servant laid him on the ' sofa; so quick and ‘lOiul and difiieult; 
that Catharine Watched in MUor; expecting the 'last struggles of 
deatli. A pause of silence ensued, every eye fixed on the Suf- 
ferer nS' he continued to struggle for breath, and'tb recover from 
the effeOts of exertion oii''e!xhausted nature. Dunallan’s 'lOoks' 
were' bent on him with an expi^ssiOii of thd mdst painful ankiety 
and sympathy. HarcoUrt ' at last in' some degree recOveml,' 
arid his attendant' retired. ' ■ ' : : • r - 

Another silent pause dhsued. It Was broken by Dunallani 
' I wished to Sed you 6iice more, Hai*cOurt/ .• ' ' 


392 


, , DUNALLAN J OK, 


‘‘I, too, v/ ahed to see you, Dunallan,” replied Harcourt, al- 
most in a whisper. 

I wished to know from yourself, Harcourt, whether you 
were more, willing:; to meet a change of existence than when I 
last saw you ? ” 

ff Willing f” repeated . Haiicourt^ in a yoice thaf made Catha- 
rine start ; it was so hollow, and proceeding from his deathlike 
frame, seemed so unnaturally loud, “ to change r hell 

in prospect for hell in reality 

“ Harcourt! why do you determine to indulge, such horrible 
anticipations?” replied Dunallan with much emotion. “You 
have the offer of heaven without one condition but that of hum- 
bling yourself to receive it. We are perhaps both on the verge 
of an eternal state, Harcourt, and — n— ” ' i 

“ Eternal! ” interrupted Harcoui’t,, in a voice that made Cath- 
arine unconsciously shrink closer toi Dunallan ; ” re-, 

peated he. The word seemed to have awakened ideas of ex/- 
treme horror. I once believed in an eternal sleep,” continued 
he, ^tnow I believe in an eternal, never to be satisfied jsearehiug' 
for sleep* I am awake — vividly awake forever. I cannot! 
sleep now. I never more shall sleep ! Oh for one single hour 
of dreamless sleep I ” ; . ' - - 

Catharine was moved, for Harcourt’s voice ;had changed in 
uttering the last words, from a tone, of horror,/, to one of dq-; 
spairing sadness. The stiUe of liismwn feelings, , too, seemed so 
overjwwering, as . to make him scarcely consciou.'^ , of the -pres- 
ence of others, and she ventured to i^y, “ It is ,that wanf of 
necessary ^sleep, Mr. Ha i;court, which mtikes the, future appear 
so gloomy. ■ One night of quiet repose would dispel all those , 
horrors.” , , / : , 

“ And who denies me sleep ? ” asked he in thc: same, despair- 
ing tone of voice. “ They repeat words to me, and say ; they 
are the words pf God ; they tell me, that the hairs of my head 
cUnnot 'Decome white or black without his permission; and then 
you speak of sleep — sleep, to one who would- give. a world 
for one night’s sleep, as if it was a. thing of ; chance. If I can- 
not sleep, it is because God has decreed that I never more shall 
sleep.”- 


KNOW ’ WHAT YOU JUDGE, 


^93 


. “You canuotiiknow, Harcourt,' of any such 'ilecree” said 
Mrs. Osmild quickly, but gently. “You reject truth,andbe- 
UieveYlreams of your own imagination.” ’* 

“Is your story of the worm that never dies, the dre that is 
not quenched, a dream?”’ asked Harcourt, with an expression 
ofi countenance and a tone of voice ’that made Catharine shud- 
der. I. : ‘JljOV i .III 1 M'l . 'Mi- ; I| i'- 

“ Leave us, dear Catharine,” whispered Dunallan. “ There 
is no change here. You must not listen’ to him. I shall not 
attemptl td ‘say much,! my love,” added he, on seeing that Cat li- 
arme was unwilling to leave him; Mrs. Oswald and Catharine 
then left the room, Harcourt scarcely seeming to observe their 
departure; •' : 'p ' , i 

It was 1. more than an hour before Mrs. Oswald was informed 
that her* patient had again been’ carried to his own apartment. 
Catharine I immediately returned to Dunallan; she found him 
quite worn out. He held out his hand for hers. ■ ’’ 

“He. has left me as dark and miserable as ever,” said he. 
“ He has I only found additional grounds’ of 'despair in* "every 
thing have attempted to say. Offers of mercy, the most 
touching, he listens to as a stone; while his soul ‘seems feaifully 
alive to every word which can awaken ideas of rejectioit and 
condemnation.” i . ^ > 

Dunallan seemed greatly overcome, and for the next hour 
lyielded to Catharine’s anxious entreaties to seek repose, While 
she in silence watched by him. He then seemed in some d(‘gree 
recovered, and agaiir began to converse with Catharine, and as 
he ever' did, succeeded in leading her to give expressionMo her 
inmost thoughts; and thus, if ‘painful, as they now were, almost 
stealing away their bitterness. . i 

>1 Some one- at last entered th 6 ' room. It was’ the doctor. 
Catharine 'became pale and faint. ' ' ;j;iiu M i i 

I'l “You are early, my dear sir;^’ said Dunallan. i’- ' ** - ■ ‘ * 
“It is my usual hour,” replied the doctor. > o* 

‘Hs it?” said Dunallan, then turning to Catharine and smiling 
sadly; “ time has passed rapidly this morning.” > '!•’ ^ 

. The d(?ctor felt his pulse. ' ’’f > 


394 


DUmLLAN ; OR, 


“ Well, sir,” said Dunallan^ “ Are you satisfied ? ” 

you please.” ^ 

‘‘ Quite so, my lord. It is eyen more favorable than I 
expected. , Will you admit my brethren ? ” 

I shall retuo’u immediately then,” said the doctor, addiuju^ 
che^rfiilly, while ^ he looked .with much interest at Catharine ; 

we shall soon again, madam, require your cares. I liope 
every thiqg hap2>y from, them.” 1 

He then left the TQom. 

I shall not suffer muck, dear Catharine,” said Dunallan, 
kissing her pale cheek as sin agony she bent over him — indeed 
tliey will probably tlo nothing till the evening.” 

Catharine trembled violently. She could not speak. 

“3Iy belpved Catharine, I must ask you to leave me.” . 

“ Oh Dunallan I can I do nothing? must I leave, you?” 

, ^ iTpu can pray for ,mc, dearest Catharine, and that will sup- 
port us both.” ,i : ; 

, Catharine, heard. tsfeps approaching; she, in anguish, pressed 
Dunallan’s:hand to her forehead, and hastened to another door 
as the, doctors entered the room. Siie, looked back for Walder- 
ford,^ He was there ,!looking -SO calm, that slie felt more 
assured- She entered, the apartment next to Dunallan’s; no 
one perceived her. 

My dear WaldErford,”,saUl Dunallan, “ must you be pr^ent 
to see my. side probed ? : Yon will suffer more, than I shall — I 

wish, you, would epnsent --r-Tr^’ i 
“Say .no more, Dunallan, you must allow me.” 

“.Well, then, come and give me your kind breast for a pillow.” 
Walderford .supported him on his : breast, and tlie doctor 
prepared to uncover Dunallan’s wound. Catliarine became 
faint,! and CQuld scarcely reach the door of the room. Slie 
found Mrs. Clanmar and Mrs.. , Oswald were, waiting without, 
and fell lifeless.dntpjitheir; arms. They conveyed her to an 
apartment distant from Dunalhm’s, and Mr$* Oswald used no 
other .means .tp.refitore her to recollection, than laying her’ on a 
sofa, and opening , a window. She almost wished she might 
continue insensible until the painful operation was over, and 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


395 


Stood walcliing^ lior lifeless eountenance, herSelf alnioBt ‘as pale 
and motionless. ' Mrs. eianmar knelt by tlie Sofa, liei* hands 
clasped tbgether, and her ey eS raisetl in snpplicarion to ‘ heaven. 
Catharine remained for a considerable time insensible'. ' At last 
she began to show Symptoms of fetnniing' life. On Opening 
her eyes, and seeing Mrs. Oswald bending over her; with looks 
of the deei>est anxiety,'she started up “ Whene am I ?■ What 
has happened ?” she looked dreadfitll-y alarmed, but soon 
Tecollecting what had passed, “ Oh ! is it not over ? 

“ It soon 'will now, I trttsV^ said' Mrs. Oswald.’ '^* '1 slialhre- 
tui-n and tell you the moment it is.” ' She left the a’oOhI'. ' 

Mrs. Clanmar still knelt— “ Oh ! that is indeed right, my dear 
Mrs. Clanmaf 1 ” Catharine knelt down beside hei', “ We shall 
remain here. She covered her face, and in broken ejaculations 
supplicated heaven in behalf Of Dunallan. • " 

“Oh what d time they take ! exclaimed she at last. “ I 
must go.” She started up — ^ Mrs. Clantnai* gently detained her. 

At length Ml'S! Oswald returned; “It fe ovcr cpiite safely, 
thank Cod. Another ball has been’ extracted.”' • ' 

“ Thank heaven ! Horrid St. Glair ! ” exclaimed Catharine, 
raising her clasped hands to heaven, aiM shuddering at the same 
moment ‘ : 

“ May I ndw'gb to Dunalfan ” ' 

She liad again become very pale. “ Not quite yet, my dear 
Catharine,” replied Mi-s. Oswald, “ yoiV must be very calm. I 
saw him. He seems greatly exhausted, and ybu must, iny love, 
have perfect command of yourself.” ' ■ ' - 

Catharine was sensible of this, and allowed Mrs. Oswald to 
detain her for a few minutes, and listened to all she Said ; for 
Mrs. Oswald’s self-denial aiid composure, but still mbre hef deep 
piety, she always found greatly contributed to restore' her self- 
command, and powers of thought. She'theil returned to Dun- 
allan’s apartment. Siie' sdftly entered' thrbugh the aiite-rodm. 
She found' the doctor and Walderfofd' Still with hinq btit the 
curtains of liis bed were all closely drawn; and' the doctor made 
a sign to her on her entrance to be peifectly silent. She' ’seated 
herself liear Dunallan’s bed. For some time the doctor and 


306 


UUNALLAN J OK, 


Walderford remained quite still. Catharine listened, but covdd 
not }>erceive tliat Dunallan even breathed. After some time the 
doctor approached and softly drew aside the curtain. Catharine 
started on seeing Dunallan, he looked so excessively pale and 
languid. He saw her, however, and smiled faintly. The doctor 
held something to his lips, which he with difliculty swallowed ; 
and then, after looking for a moment at Catharine, and moving 
his lips as if to si)eak, he closed his eyes, and looked so gone^ 
that Catharine’s terror was expressed by a qountenance almost 
as pale. The doctor whispered to her that there was no cause 
for alarm, and again resumed his seat. He looked constantly 
at his watch, and after each 'short interval, again and again 
administered restoratives to his patient, whose looks filled Cath~ 
arino with apprehension. 

The doctor remained during the rest of the day, and great 
part of the night: ho then gave up his charge to Catharine, who 
Inid eagerly inquired into the minutest of his prescriptions, and 
anxiously watched his method of treatiiiig his patient. 

When she hei’self approached, and held a draught to his lips, 
Dunallan smiled, and an expression of pleasure, for a moment, 
brightened his eyes. “I, do not suffer,’’ said he, in a low voice. 
“Thank God!” was all that Catharine allmved herself to say 
in a voice as low. The doctor had entreated her, to avoid all 
conversation for some time. Dunallan, whenever she approached 
him, wished to speak, but she persevered in imposing silence on 
him, and also on herself. 

For several days Dunallan continued almost in the same state 
of Aveakness, and the doctor continued to evade all Catliarine’s 
importunate inquiries. She thought at last that both he and 
JMrs. Oswald looked disappointed and alarmed, when the -doctor 
found Dunallan did not recover, and her strength began to sink 
under fatigue and constant apprehension. 

One . evening as she, sat by him, Dunallan’s sleep, which had 
been hitherto short and disturbed, became tranquil, and continued 
for several hours Catharine was frightened, because this was 
unusual.,: She stood leaning ovoi’ him. His countenance was 
perfectly calm — there was almost a smile upon it, and he breathed 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUOOE. 


397 


quite easily. Catharine dared > not disturb him by touching his 
arm to feel the pulse, in the strength or weakness of* which she 
had become very skilful, but she could' see, -by the motions 6f the 
things around I him, that it was stronger and more regular dhan 
usual.' All she had heard of the short interval of streno-th, 
wliicli is sometimes a prelude to death, returned at ‘that moment 
to her recollection, and she bent over him, 'almost cxt'iecting to 
see him stop breathing, — and worn out iii- body anddn mind, she 
scarcely felt any emotion.- Dunallan’s fslecp,> tranquil ‘ and 
profound, still continued for many hours. • At last he awoke, just 
after the doctor had stolen softly into Ins apartment, j Catliarine 
watchcil the doctor’s countenance as he felt! Dunallan’s pulse ;■ it 
brightened. <'<>) m .: ■) : , j . 

^ ‘‘ Ah^ hei-e is' a ciiange indeed ! ”( exclaimed he*. “ I 'think, my 
lord, you will now be forced to remain with -us.' /Your pulse* is 
as- good as 'iny own, or any man’s/’ >i - i ' » i r- > i >' » ) nu I in > 

* I Catharine nearly fainted. The doctor supported dier to' a 
seat out of Dunallan’s sight,' and she was soon relievedi by a 
burst of tears; and after i yielding to > them for a fe^v moments, 
returned' to Dunallan*' He seemed absorbed in thought. His 
face was turned away, and. his eyes raised to heaven. 

’ The doctor t approached^ My : • lord, i you > are surprisingly 
recovered.” . ^ < iu- • ■ ; ( 

Dunallan now • perceived Cathanne, and ' held' out his hand 
for hers. > “ My Cathaiine, what a nurse iyoinhave been !■ Doc- 
tor, hoAv could you suffer her thus to fatigue herself? ” “ She said 
itiwas by your directions, she would neither answer me nor 
listen to me when I spoke.” .ei ' i-< < i!' n ' r d 

io<‘ Lady Dunallan will now. converse with you, my loixl, t^ud 
may also leave you i to" seek repose, n There! will no longer be 
any cause, I hope, for such close attendance.”'' ' i * /'"U/l 
“My own Catharine!’*’ exclaimed Dunallan^ when the doctor 
had left the room, you are pale and exhausted, i -How ymi' have 
distressed me, my f love I • You must not stay another moment 
with' me, but - go to rest. I'When you i return Ave* may speak of* 
the future.” !<> e * > ■/ .! ' « « > 

“ But, Dunallan, I (think you look 'sad ; I you ^ are grieved to 
34 


DUNALLAN ; OR, 


BOO 

remain in this !\v.orUl. It i& for niy ;Sake, hay friend, ! I need a 
guide, a counselloiv and God has listened to my pfaytei’ii” i ; ; 

“Ah no, Catharine. The doctor’s favorable . /opinion : has j 
on . the contrary, made me too happy. I am mb^t amgratetuL fr;+ 
earthly — — ! ” He burst into tears, and,; covering liiS.- face! -was 
for a moment, 'deeply agitated. . ; ? ’ ' 

Catharine pressed his hand to her lips, “ Ai’e you thus grieved 
at my happiness, Dunallan ?” ' 

“ I am grieved at not being mbre. anxious to leave this world 
and all it has to offer for another, which, in my soul, I believe 
to , be far preferable. ; I ido not understand- my own feelings, 
Catharine Jbave me, my love — ; while I see -that j)ale: oobnte- 
nance I can think of nothing else — that too dear.-i — idolized 
countenance,” added he. “ Wlnen iyou return I shall jibrliai^s 
comprehend myself ” , 1 , - r 

Catharine consented to leave him, and retired taia: repose 
which was soon profound. She had been too much worn out to 
feel the full extent of her happiness, but her liiind was now 
relieved from anxiety, and she was almost tisleep before Martin 
had finished undressing - herj and remained profoundly so: for 
many hours. When at length she awoke, Martin was by her, 
and gave her the delightful intbiligence that Hu iialhin was pro- 
nounced out of danger. / - 

Catharine felt the most subduing sense of giatitude tb heaven, 
and once, and again, before she left her room, returned to her 
knees, to exjmbss it. ' ’ ■ . loi 

“Do you yet comprehend yourself, my friend ’’said '{ihe 
when again alone with Dunallan. ! 

“ Too well, my dear Catharine. I libw know. i sbmetliing of 
the deccitfulness of the human heart, but it is bettor I should 
know it than remain deceived.” ; - 

>tMay:I ask how your hehrt hais; deceived you, Dunallabf?^’ 

“ Why, my deal’ Cathariiie, I -had persuaded myself that: I 
was really willing to die — that I did not wish to recover — that 
my will was not only resigned, but- that I preferred: .the /will of 
God and the glorious prospects which open to a Christian in 
another state, to all that this world could offer me — -even to!you. 


KNOW WHAT- YOU JUDGE. 


399 


‘my Catliarine. Yet I was not disappointed — ^at least only for 
a moment,, when- 1 1 felt returning strengthi ' l The* pleasures of 
■this world, so much better -known,' 'resumed their power^ to cap- 
tivate. You, my Catharine, my wife ' so • long ' only in name ~ 
now so sweetly returning h\y affection-^ ah, my love ! I' should be 
tempted to doubt the reality of my religion' altogether, did' I not 
feel that this world would be nothing fo'ine without its 'hopes; 
-and .that, in my soul, I believe ! should, hare been far happier 
had I died.” ‘ ^ . 

v[<|^FiMy. dear Dunallanj”'!'said -Catharine; “ it Is not- wrong to 
value the blessings of life*' when God bestows -'^thein on you. 
lYoii.once asked meito reprove yon when I Saw you* valued them 
too highly. I shall try to* remember this;’ but I think, had ‘'you 
turned from them with disgust and disappointment, you would 
also 1 'have been o wrong. "' You ‘ wei^: prepared to die, Dunallan. 
lYou 1 will also bo enabled'* so' to 'dive as to honor God in ’this 
1 world. . You will 'find-i happiness in^^ attempting this and* oh ! 
howi happy shall ‘I be in-seconding your^ every wish to promote 
' hislgloryas far as shall'be hi our powen”'**' ‘ •*' ■ • 

lii'iM Sweet preacher ! said* Dunallan',’ “you wish to reconcile 
!me to myself - "Yoii will find it too 'easy.' ' But 'now, my love, 
read to meJ' I cannot yet ''do 'so my.^elf; ‘ You’ must assist me 
to" direct my thoughts aright.”’- -m i’ -■ ! *' • ' ■ 

•**i 'Catharine read while Dunallan continued still to listen'. ^ Her 
ibwn heart was light’aud thankful.' ‘ Shall I find any directions 
for the happy here ?”’said'she;iagain’'opening'the sacred volume. 

“ David’s harp is often turned to- joy and praise.” She sung a 
'feiV* words inJthegoyfulness ofdier heart/ then- blushing, stopped. 

Do not. stop, ' sweet inursej”' said DUnallanl'‘"“ Tlidse 'words 
ekpresS'thevei*)'! feelings of my ‘soul, and your voice iSniusic to 

everyofeelingii^- 'd Mjf ‘.'iii j'j ju'mI! 'lo i j* i < 

.III iCathariiie 'i again sung, ‘but 'was -Uoon' interrupted by the 
entrance ' of Mrsi Oswald;* slie* liastencd to'" fiiOet 'and embrace 
her Dearest '’Mrs. Osumld, how kind, hoW ‘self-denying* *you 
have been ! * Now. you are rewarded I ’d Dtinallaii' is spared to 
.ns!’’! liliv/ Mi ;»ll i.-./i-*- rf hin; ( nlti-t C foiil ^ ; .i s 

Ml’S. I Oswald warmly," but' f sileiitiy, returned Catharine’s 


400 


DUNALLAN ; OR, 


embrace. She then tenderly embraced Dunallan, in vain 
attempting to suppress tears of joy and thankfulness. . 

“My dearest, kindest aunt !” .exclaimed he, returning her 
embrace. He then inquired for her patient. 

“ He at last sleeps,” replied Mrs. Oswald. : 

, , What,! i 1 Is he gone ? ” : 

“Yes, about one hour ago,”. 

‘‘ And was there any change ? ” 

“ I trust there was.” 

Dunallan was moved, Then, my dearest aunt, you are amply 
rewarded. , Your efforts have been blest when all others 
hdled. WaJdeHord’s! unanswerable ; reasonings ’ — Selwynk in- 
structions and prayers — my own attempts — liow I rejoice that 
it has been so ordered.” ; 

“You ai’C mistaken, dear Dunallan; all my efforts proved 
utterly ineffectuah Mr. Waldeifford cjsased not also to reason 
with poor Harcourt, but he had some answer again.st his own 
soul always ready. Your amiable and most Christian friend, 
Mr. Selwyn, continued too, with the most anxious solicitude to 
place before him every offer of mercy and pardon ; but though 
he eagerly sought to converse with us, he listened to all we said 
as if the power; of admitting the ideas we presented to him was 
utterly gone ; and we continued to use means, to join in praying 
for him with scarcely a ray of hope remaining, when we were 
joined by two young preachers, from whom we certainly did 
not look for the effects which followed — our two little girls.” , 

“ The children ! ” exclaimed Catharine. ' 

“Yes, my dear. I; believe you scarcely heai'd me a few days 
ago, when I told you, as you anxiously watched your patient 
here, that Miss Morven and the children were arrived. Miss 
Morven had prepared them in the most judicious manner for 
their meeting with their father, and when I took them to him, 
the little creatures, seemed so full of concern, and approached 
with such a mixture, of reverence and anxiety to please in their 
artless manner, that Harcourt at once saw that they had been 
taught to feel for him as a father, and received them with much 
kindness mid cmQtion. Their presence at lirst seemed to recall 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


401 


ulosi painful recollections, but after a time he appeared less 
gloom jr when they were with him, and seemed even to forget the 
future while listening to their prattle, or following them with his 
:eyes as they softly moved about in his room. Can these 
lovely, innocent creatures be mine ! ” said he,; with some 
returning softness of feeling* Tlie children showed so much 
concern too, when' he wasi attacked by fits ^ of coughing and 
breathlessness, tliat Harcourt was quite moved.; After one of 
these, aUacks,: little Mary had placed^ herself /close by his sofa, 
and putting her. face coaxingly to his, she said, Papa, 'you will 
soon be very, very good.” , i ; . ! M 

“J, Mary! How shall I be very good ? ; id !;ii. 

Because, papa, God afflicts us to make us good.” 

‘‘ Hoes he not afflict us, -Mary, as a punishment for having 
been wicked ? ”; : 

Harcourt looked for the cliild’s reply, as if it could have 
sealed his doom. 

But /it is to make us give up being wicked, papa,” said 
Mary,i‘^and if we confess that we have been wicked, and come 
bnck to God, he will not . punish us any morci, but will love us 
when he sees ns coming, and will come to meet us.” 

“ Come to meet us ! ” repeated Harcomd. 

Yes, papa,” said Mary, “ shall I read you about that in the 
Hible?” 

, Harcourt allowed , the child to do as she wished, . and she 
bi'Ouglit her Bible, and seating herself close to him, she. read the 
parable to which she had alluded. Harcourt listened earnestly 
and the liardness and darkness which had withstood all our at- 
tenq>ts, seemed to yield before this lowly means. When Mary 
came to that passage, “ But When he was yet a great way off, 
his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on 
his neck, and kissed him,” she looked up, and . said, - f‘ Now, 
papa, did I not tell yoii?” 

Harcourt, I saw was much Overcome, but his glance towards 
me showed that he disliked being observed, and I immediately 
left the room. * I did not return for a considerable time. When 
I did, the children were both close by him, and I saw that he 
34 * 


402 


dunallan ; OR, 

had 1. been shedding tears; and Avhen the children afterwards 
left i him, I :Qbser\ted i that he had kept their Bible, During' that 
ajad; the i day following he often { read it at times while he^ 'was 
ablb, and the two following nights he - enjoyed spnie hours of 
tranfpiil sleepJ ' He spoke little to any one for the last few days, 

. but his looks and manner i Were entirely changed. He - wiis, 
jliowever, most lanxious t0> sOcure, the certainty of . his children 
being' left Entirely und^iyour guardianship, Dunallan, arid was 
assisted hy Mr. Walderfotd to do all thht whs in his power to 
; secure this, lest hia' own relations should ever attempt to interfere. 

He warmly thanked us for all our cares and patience with him ; 
and his last words to me were,' Tell Dunallan that! die in the 
hope of the tlrief on the cross.” ui;; - i • 1 

For several succeeding days, Catharine! > continued to devote 
her every moment to Dunallan. She read to him, or conversed 
with him, or sung, or. sought I by heh geritlh and playful gdiety 
to amuse him, and every day seemed to discover some new way 
of charpaing or interesting. During these days, Walderford 
had performed the last duties to ‘poor Harcourt,' and Mrs; Os- 
wald had set out with the children o?i their i^eturri to ' Scotland; 

Dunallan continued to recover rapidly, though still too weak 
to leave his room. Catharinb-s' joy was expressed in her rini- 
mated : looks, her light step,' arid s weetly playful manners. 

“The doctor says you may now admit one or two friends, 
Dunrillan,” said she one day^t" arid such crowds are desirou^ of 
seeing you, that I suppote if they are admitted,' two at a time 
they iwiU Last at least for ia mOnthdV i ud 

DunaUaii smiled, but did not seerii greatly to Cnjoy this per- 
misSion;)l shall, ! fear, liave reason to regret my being so 
far recovered,, my Catharirieii Those friends, kind aS they are^ 
will ! not supply the; place of my nurse to me,'” a : > : . ^ i 
f^-'And is she . to bo banished when they come ? ” . / . 

“Will she not wish to banish herself? ' Will not ^ Miss Mor- 
ven demand her attention^ and Mrs. Glanmar ? But I am Very 
selfish, or I ivould wish you to escape from a sick ix)om,'i which 
you have made to me the sweetest place I ever inhabited,”^ 

..I “.Perhaps,! since yori shy s6,?' replied Gathariney playfully, 


KNOAY. WHAT (YOU (JUDGE. 


403 

lliougli iblusliing i deeply, *^Hhis will be the iproper time to make 
you lcoiifeSs that yiou believe I always felt as Iiought fbr'you-^ 
I always, wrote as I oughb’^ j.-.e .idltifint va\i\ Iuv-.H mI jawl .i-*/ » 

< ‘^ No, iiiOi,t Gatharineyt your own* tesbiwas/ithei affection of i a 
wife, not( the compassionate! (kindness dfi alnursd. 'In. that ‘you 
are perfect.* I, shall not easily" think you so in the dthen’^v ,d. 

V, Unreasonable t distinctions,. ^ f ; exclaimed' Gatliaririe'j» blufeliihg 
again. think 1 1 mustcshow yomdidwtarhurisepifhof is' riot a 
wifepwould treat lyou — so now which * of > your friends will you 
admit this evening do relieve me fronl my cares ? ’bn. p iur-o! !) 

(*‘1 cannot tell but, CathaHne, do you conceal it from mCj 
ondoiydu really 'hear nothing dfSt/ClairiPf'iOi .iicii! m!? 

.1 Nothings Diniallan. /.il hope I.never!shalll”//'»!'ff .i; 

. ! ( f • -My »i Gathariney I you ;* are wrong t in' .this, ■ you* < mbstei forgive 
him.’’ j 'll lii (I ; // li ixnid h'.l>ii »t (> : >d .•J'C***-' <•) cl i» il'/zo-: > 

■ do forgive, himj(I!’hope;?ibut must' It wish to hear of, or 
take any j intercut i in ..the ; Iioriid being, ; -who, • iii ihtentiouy i was 
your ndurdererylDunallan ?”/** A message from Waldeiford* at 
this moment, rdqiiested admission. 1 - oi i? ( .' Jifeco.cf 

Walderford had spent many anxious ii hoiirs' bye Dunallan 
during his - illness,’ ande his natural reserve "had Ydth 'Catharine 
entirely Avorn off. She felt for him as for a!brother, and‘'ridw 
cordially : welcomed him. /jf* d 1 i c e d iU .v-oiivf io(c ..J. I " 

V Miv Walderford will be '/able to answer ' idl your inquiries, 
Uunallan,’* said slicj oii his'entrancew'j clj t,. • !i !*.;• 

“Can you, Walderford, tell me any i thing of> Slv < Glair ?•’’ 
asked |DimaUan*{'H(f 7 / vc,)//- { cr.i <. .»il; »-(i({v/ l,\n< ti 1" 

Walderford hesitated. .ccliccc^ ! h * I ^ 

“I see yoii.'can,” resumed . Dunallaii; It entreat yon to tell 

me without reservcall you knoWkh;* lias he left the country?-’ 

“No. He Avas arrested at , and isiinow liu cContihe^ 

menh /He must be triedi’’> vjdto! : -c'* •>(! duiil' I* 

‘ “--But on Avhat grounds?” *lc( i(r. ic -d/ .i«>/ 't/. ' dud 
“There are scA-eral charges against him. After the morning 
on Avhi'ch you- .met, he continued 'for ^some time' in eoncealnient, 
I knoAV-not Avhele, and Avas at last discovered by' a> servant who 
had been bribed by 'him, it appears^ to stop letters at some post- 


404 


DUNALLAN ; OK, 


of?ice on the coast. This felloiv had repented, and had detenu 
to leave St. Clair’s service before that morning^. St. Clair, how- 
ever, had believed him faithful, and when the servant went to 
him one: day lately, and boldly declared his determination to 
appear against him should he remain in this country, and confess 
the Avhole business respecting the letters, iand also the means 
which had been takeii to bring about the meeting at-^ — Farm, 
Stw Clair, already fretted almost to madness (by the necessity of 
his skulking about in concealment — a necessity so galling to his 
arrogant spirit-^and also by the reports in circulation respecting 
the duel), became so exasperated, as to repeatedly and violently 
strike the man, and then push him out of thC room with such 
force as to throw him down the stairs, by which h«? was seriously 
hurt. ' St. Clair made no attempt to escape, but when Uie people 
crowded in to secure him, he defended himself with the despemte 
bravery, or rather fuiy of a madman. This assault is one charge j 
’ — stopping the letters another-4. the duel la third — but I think it j 
likely nothing serious will be proved against him. The note | 

which brought you to Farm was so artfully written, that I 

itcandohimnoharm.” 

I sinCei^ly hope not,’’ said Dunallan, with much concern. ! 
“ When does! his trial come on ? ’r 

“ I do not know. His friends, I fear, will injure him by their 
many at tempts to interest men in power in his behalf. They only 
call the attention of the public to the business, which is a very 
dishonorable one for him.’f: i . > 

“Is it said whose those letters were, which : he stopped | 
asked Dunallan. i ^ ' | 

“No, but that will probably appear on the trial.” | 

Catharine became very pale; “Will the letters appear?’" | 
asked . she^ trembling. . , I 

“ I think he has probably destioyed them,’^ implied Walder- 
ford. “ Are you. Madam, at all interested in their appearing? * 
asked he, anxiously. 

“ I will surprise you^ my friend, when I tell you,” said Dun- I 
allan, “that those letters were Catharine’s and my own; and j 
that St. Clair at that time had almost, indeed did succeed, iy j 


4U5 


I KNOW,.WaAT YOU JUDGE. 

I milking me believe that Catharine detested me. Youi never>bcfore‘ 

I knew, Walderford, what it was that liastened my /return home. 
It was] the contents of tlie letters forwai’ded to me, Ijbelieve by' 
tSt. Clair,' instead of those really written by Catharinellk *ii »m(! 

“Then,” exclaimed Walderford, “ II from .niy souli-wishithis^ 
hllany may be proved against him— life is unfit to die therefore^ 

I [ hope nothing more serious than this may-be proved — but may 
i fie spend the next ten years, in banishment!” . ! // < dii i «' 1 'k 
;‘^O h no,” said Dnnallan, ‘,‘,1 cannot wish that.” fnil’ , i- 
“Ilis character will be gone forever,” said i Walderford ; “his 
I wuntry can have no charms for him.” :.H-i ,1' > i . n. -tn 

J “Unhappy St Qair!” exclaimed Uunallan, with <j much 
feeling. ,I . . f - I) -whOii', j -n; ^ .d ! i/rt'TH (7,1 

I “You surprise me by the interest you.-take in thafcvile St.' 
Clair, myidear Dunallan,V said. Catharine jlV; surely disgracb is- 
a very just punishment for a man iwho has., stooped to such 
I meanness; and too slight for one- who,, in dhe sight of heaven;' is 
ja murderer,” .d ;ii i ► .'i 'i''! '> tr. - ui i5 ji-i/;-.' •• s.,! I ■•!.'/} 

I “ I do feel deeply for him, my deav' Cathai'ine,ibecause >1 can 
1 judge from experience, to what dreadful forgetfulness of all that* 
I is most rhonomble or sacred, we. miiy be led by the indulgence 
i of strong , passions. From my soul I| lament » the ( fate of) St 
Clair.” ■ i . ' ■ t 'to 

“But dishonorable, mean actions, Dunallan !■*— passion ndveri 

could have bent your soul to them.” ' i /h ^ ‘ 

“Do you think violating my promise lito a dying friendUess 
base, Catharine ? ” <■ - i- uvr/r <>'1 I, ll=' 

“Butiyou did not violate that piximise, Dunallan” - ' n-h- •>.! 
.“,In intention I did circumstances interposed and saved me ;l 
for, these I humbly thank God. In myself .1 was completely! 

lost subdued by tpassion.s, whiclt I now recollect with- too keen 

remorse to suffer me to feel any thing but pity for a wretched 
being under their influence. Plave you seen St. Clair,' myfdear 
Walderford?” >, • J, ,I -n- ; : P-h ’/ 

“I have- He sent for mfei to ftsk soine.que.stions respecting 
you. He wished, he, said, to know the truth. I told him you 
I were recovering, die asked how many balls had been extracted 


406 


'DUNALLAU; OR, 

from your side.' ^ I said, two, without making any remarks Hc| 
smiled bitterly, ^ I did not wiBli either' bf uk to stirvive,’ Said he,| 
‘at least not him/ I attempted to reason with him on his injustice, 
but he said our ideas of justice did not; nOr ever wbuld agree/ 
He thoughtlthe principles I professedj as 'Well as you, the meanest 
on : the face of the earth. They condemned, he said, every virtu c 
that ill his opinion constitutes the character of a man, and exalted 
into virtues, whatever was abject and mean; ‘ and the unac-: 
countable, diabolical tiling is,^ added he, almost with fiiry, that! 
those who profess them, after using the most heartless, perse vbriiig 
meanness to attain their ends, succeed in coiivincihg' their 
unhap})y dupes, that they are saints and an^els^ and with their 
hypocritical jargon confuse and subdue those minds, which are 
too modest — too amiahle — too gentle^ — too enthusiastically 
good, to condemn what they imagine must be right, Sirice prac-' 
tised by such religious peojile. ’ ” ■ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 

“ I know to what he alludes,^- said DimallUn, “and unhap- 
pily I have given him cause for part of what lie says.” 

“ You I Duiiallan,” said. Catharine; tenderly, “ how* ydu con- 
demn yourself ! ” 

“ Perhaps, my loVe,” replied he, “you would have 'been of ! 
St. Clair’s bpiniohj had Ifc ^expressed it during the first month 
of our acquaintance. You see, my Catharine, how spotleks’ 
the life of a Christian must be* I was criminal in making the 
promise I did to my dying father/’ ' 

‘<*1 attempted,” continued Walderfoi'd, “ to sepa fate what you 
yourself allowed to be wrong in your conduct, my friend (for 
lie soon began to talk on that subject), and thd perfect blariie- 
lessness of your general character, and wished to convince 
him that affection at least, could never be won by an uffbctkioii 
of religion, but be would not listen tome. On One subject he 
appears to me nearly deranged.” . - 

“ On what subject ? my friend.” : ' , ! 

AYalderford looked at Catharine. 

“I understand you, Walderford; you mean the possibility 
of my having inspired affection here,-’ looking also at Catha- 
rine, who sat bv d'.e sofV on which he reclined. 


KNOAV WHAT ,yOl7t JUDGE. 


407 


/^And that is hi$r affection, fqr me l ” exclaimed Catharine, 
“about which he has said sq much, and Avhich he thinks an ex- 
cuse for SQ many crimes.. ^le wishes me:. to hate the man to 
•wliom I am i iedissolubly united. Oh what jicrvorsiou of lan- 
guage and of truth ! Jt is self^ self alone he loves,; and disap- 
pointed pride, and jealous . hatred, have instigated him to all he 
lhas.|done.” , 

: “ Certainly,; madam,” said Walderford, “his present feelings 
deserve no better name than selfishness.” . b n . • 


! : : . . ... • ; . i|_ ; Ii:- -i.;. ' 

CHAPTER XXHL 

. ■; ,[ • ' . • . ■ 

For several days imthing more was heard of St. Claii^. / Dun- 
allan, since he had been permitted by his physician, had .seen 
many of his friends, and . Catharine, to whom most . of them 
wei'O strangers, often left him^ to spend ani hour or two with 
]\Irs. Clanmar or. Miss Morven. Every hour, howcveiv in which 
she -waS/ absent from Dunallani seemed immeasurably tedious, 
even whep; spent with Miss Morven ; and greatly more, so when 
spent with Mrs, , Clanmar. , ; In this, however^ Catharine ffelt 
herself ungrateful and: ^elfish ;; for Mrs. Clanmar, dui’iiig Diin- 
allan’s illness, had been unweariedly kind and attentive, while 
she seemed hei’self to expect no attention, and to 1^ unboundedly 
grateful, for. the least proof of kindness, i -- ' - 

She had- scarcely an acquaintance in London. Clanmar 
sought his society , and pleasures away from home, while she 
devoted herself to her little boy, and thought it kind if Clan- 
mar spent a , day with her. Miss iMorven’s arrival iri London 
had been almost u new era in Mrs. Clanmar’s life. She spei^ 
part of every cbiy with her. ; At first she had done so;that she 
might hear of Catharine, but she afterwards became every day 
morq djeeplyluterested in this, amiable and almost deserted young 
foreigner. Mrs,. Clanmar loved Miss. Morven with enthusiasm, 
and Catharine no less. Their kindness drew forth those pow- 


DUNALLAN ; OR, 


408 

ers a stranger would not have believed she possessed, obscured 
as they were by her broken language, and humble deference to 
eveiy one’s opinion in preference to her own^ Miss 
Morven and Catherine ' were Surprised to find that this 
gentle and lowly young creature had found, or rather 
‘>liad' been taught by Heaven, and by her misfortunes, to Seek her 
happiness from that pure and exalted source which can never 
fail or disappoint** Without instruction, except fiom her Bible, 
and without knowing what meaning others gave to the Sacred 
volume, she had understood it for herself in the very same 
way in which they did ; but she knew it better, for she valued it 
more. She w'ept with joy and gratitude to Heaven, when she 
found they understood her, and felt as she did. This was a 
new bond which led tpi^eelingsfpiore dear and intimate than those 
of sisters, and Catharine reproached her heart for its selfish- 
ness, when she found that while Mrs. Clanmar was enjoying a 
pleasure in her society, which seemed to restore her to new life 
and animation, her own thoughts cobtinually returned to Dun- 
allanj and the time seemed long to her, which to her solitaiy 
yoiingTriend seemed so short; and that, though she joined in 
the; intercst Miss Morven felt in this gentle creature, yet, when 
with her, her thoughts were only occasionally pi'esenU 
jl . One evening on which Clanmar had promised to see Dun- 
allah, Catharine deteimined to devote entirely to Mrs. Clanmar. 
Miss Morven she knew was engaged, and she felt pleased at 
having an opportunity of conversing quite freely. Mrs. Clan- 
mar had often appeared anxious for such conversation with her, 
but hkd been alWays prevented ; yet not before she had said 
enough' to convince Catharine there was some secret cause of 
uneasiness she wished to reveal to her. 

On this evening Clanmar appeared, as he had promised. 
Catharine was with Dunallanwhen he sent to ask admittance. 

“I must talk a. long time with him, dearest Catharine,” said 
Dunallan, « how will you Spend your evening ? You see how 
vain you make me by your constant goodness to me. I think 
you will feel the time Hong without having your poor patient 
every moment to sootlui and instruct and charm.” 


KNOW, WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


4Q0 


“Instruct! Dunallan,” replied Catharine, “you are greatly 
indebted to me for that part of my care.” i ; ' 

“Yes, my dear nurse, you ha vo guessed the state of my mind 
and feelings with wonderful exactness. You know ; you have 
yourself generally chosen whatever you have read m )me. 
You, and this wound^ my sweet friend, have taught me much I 
shall never forget, both of myself and of my detirer'self” , ! 
Clanmar entered. He, blushed on seeing Dunallan. ,,, 

“ You have thought me negligent, my friend. Lady Dum 
allan, I fear you blame me, but I have been so harassed Avkh 

business, I ” : i 

; “Ho more excuses, dear Clanmar,” interrupted Dunallan, 
gaily,. “ I have been too happy in a nurse, ever to feel neglected,; 
and I know too well your attentive kindness, while I was ia any. 
danger, to doubt of your feelings ; but, my friend, I , long to, 
know what hps engaged you so deeply of late ? ” < i ' m * . ) 

“ Dunallan, I am not surprised -n — ” < • - . t- 

Catharine left the room. before: he proceeded farther, and 
joined Mrs. Clanmar, whose countenance still glowed with the; 
happiness she had felt, on again seeing her, amiable, Ihmigh 
careless husband^,. . , : , ' ' 

“ He is so kind to. me when he does come,”, said shc,.ffand:. 
so delighted to have his little AVilliam again in his arms, thati l 
am sure he would be happier at home than anywhere, if he had 
a wife worthy of him.” > ' < ■< .. 

“ X think the wife has not a husband WPr thy of her,” said 
Catharine, affectionately kissing her cheek, “ at least hc; does 
not take time to study the truly amiable, and sensible^ and, 
indeed, as far as I see, perfect .character of that wife..” 

“ Ah, Lady Dunallan, your pity for me leads, you to say all 
tills — but no more , on such a poor subject. Clanmar sayS he 
has much to. talk about wjth Lord Dunallan pn (business which 
could have no interest for, you, ; and has desired me to attempt 
to make your time pass agreeably* by undeceiving you respect- 
ing j,-aports which he knoAVS you^must have heard regarding the 
cause of his marrying me, — reports , which are injurious.’ to 
Lord ! Dunallan, but which he knows Lord Dunallan himself 

35 


410 


dukallan; OR; 


would never allude to or contradict. He is determined • you 
shall know all, that his own mind may, in some degVee, be at 
i^st^ after, us he sayS, having been the most ungi’ateful of 
human beings.” (s 

“ Oh,” replied Gatharine, “I do Hot now believ'e that Dunallan 
cbuld ' ever have been any thing but the l^st of firbnds. I do 
not believe Mr. Clanmar can be ungrateful. I will not hear 
this story, Mrs. Clanmar ; We ^sh^l talk ^of something else> ihy 
dear friend.^’ ‘ •■:!•••' 

“ You may trust me. Lady ]!)unallan,^’ replied Mrs. Clanmar. 
“ I shall not make you think very harshly of Clanmai’l I Wish’ 
you to' listen to me, because you' Will then know better ' about 
myselL I have not been very justly treated by report i and I 
wish you to know also that you may tell Lord Dunallan how 
very mfeetable Clanmar was without his friendship.” 

Catharine saw that Mrs. Clanmar 'Wished to ptoOeed and 
consented, though rather unwillingly; yet she felt S Wee lly 
gratified in liavin!g this last 'stain eleai’ed away from the bharac- 
ter of Dunallan.' ' ' i i- 

“You niust hear sottiething about my early youih, my dear' 
Lady Dunallan,” began Mrs. Clanmar, “ to lead you to excuse, 
in Sonio degree, the rashne^ and guilt info Which my ignorance 
ahdiseMslmOss led me. I shall hot tii’e'yOu with myself.” ’ ' 

<^ lt fe beOau'se I wish to know more about you, my dchr 
friend, my soul’s sister, that I listen to this story,” i*eplied Cath- 
aiine. “ Tell me all about yourself, and be sbOrt Ori every’ other 

subject’d . ! • ^ • 

*“ Since you desire if,' and call me' so sWeet a name, I shall 
just speak what I fbelj” replied Mrs. Clanmar; “ and take yOU 
back' with me to thaf happy time, when I lived with in/ good 
and kind grandfather, in his roihantic and beautiful retreat in 
Switzerland. You knOw that' I by birth am a German.' My' 
mother was an only child. She made an unhappy marriage, 
and died soon after my’ birth. Her death almost broke my 
grandfather’s heart, 'knd ' lie' fetived with me iiito ' Switzerland, 
where he lived in the gi-eatest seclusion — and gave himself up 
to the' sbdy of philosophy, and to his fondness for me. T, on 


KNOAV WIIAT YOU -JUDGE. 


411 


j pfirtj cared for no one ibufc him. jitAs I advanced in age^ lie 
j taught me whatever I. learned without, trouble, but he never, for 
I a moment,. contradicted • or. restrained (me..}nHe saw lhat I was 
naturally of atendenand roman tic. disposition. Ah ! if lieMaul 
taught me how unfit- such a disposition is ito. struggle \vith tempr 
tation — if Herhaxl taught.mefhow to reglateimy feelings -h but 
he doived. me for them, and. cultivated- my romantic i softness -as 
the most amiable perfection of a woman. When 1 1 . grew lip, 
I read or thought' of nothing but what increased- the exalted 
state of mywimagination. ' I. spent, my ‘days in j dreams .of the 
future, or, in reading suchiWorks as oould'iinterestf me by being 
still .more romantic than my own mind.’ I knew a few of the 
' neighbors around us, but they inspired no regai’d. < They 
seemed common beings,’ satisfied .with the dull life they led, and 
destitute of those , feelings liiP which! I placed alb. my ideas of 
happiness. I was in this state; of mind’ when, jthC.iroport. that 
two young English , travellers! had come t to reside! iii our neigh* 
borhood reached my ears, with many interesting particulars 
respecting .them. Thati they were extremely hand.some — noble 
in their appearance and manners, , to a degree seldom seen in 
tliat sequestered spot — -and many.other circumstances respecting 
their affluence a.nd genei'osityj to which ill did not attend; >but 
what interested I me most, was the description -of one of the 
travellers, who always wore 'the deepest mourning -r*- spent whole 
days dm wandering. about alone, -.dr in i viewing,- -with apparent 
enthusiasm, the glories>!of> nature,/: nThey said- he. was; very 
handsome, but looked pale; and/extremely. melancholy >r- that it 
was the loss of a .beloved friend which thusi deeply affected.. his 
health and* spirits-^ and that the other gentleman wtis so devo- 
tedly attached to him^ that /he ( had left his friends and country 
to follow him. I felt,; before I .saw them, (the deepest interest 
in these strangers; and had formed a thousand visions respect- 
ing? them. -A week i passed;- /and though I had t not). yet seen 
either, I ilnid/ figured, •'iin'!my /imagination,/' thei personal -ap- 
pearance, and inaiiy otlier particulars respecting bcitlu*»> /I hoped 
1 1 'should see them bri Sunday at our little village church, land 
I dared- ‘ scarcely raise my eyes i/to the/! place’ where /'strangers 


412 


dunallan ; or. 


usually sat — at last I ventured, but they were not there. ‘ Ah !‘ 
thought I, ‘ they will not offer their devotions to the great Authol 
of nature in this contemptible little resort -for the low and narrow 
minded. They will worship him under -the glorious canopy of 
heaven^ while nature, . in' all its ‘magnificence around them,* will 
fill their exalted mindk with suitable ideas of that' -Being, whose 
noble oreatui^s they ai’o;f andithen:d despised the church land 
all thei lowly beings. .it:icontuined, and wearied of the service. 
Ah'! /I have! -learned since, that though! ‘the heavens is his 
throne, and thei<earth his footstool/ ‘ God dwells only with the 
lowly and contrite soiiL’ When church was over I asked my 
grandfather to walk with me on/ the banks of the lake, that there 
wei might raise our thoughts to subjects worthy of the day. 
Man.y of the peasants, surrounded' by their children, were en- 
joying; the coolness of the breeze from the 'Water. On one piece 
of land which! jutted into the lake, many of the children w^ere 
at* play, while 1 -their mothers,- engaged in chatting with each 
other, seemed to forget a danger to which they were constantly 
exposed; for it iwas well known, that at the point of this neck 
of land, which was rocky and - precipitous, the water was so 
deep, and the current so strong, that it was next to impossible to 
save any onei'who fell into fit. When we had passed this point, 
and had entered tliepvood close by it, we were met by two gentle- 
men, whose appearance immediately convinced me they mu;\t 
be -the two stmngers, whose idea i had indeed never been absent 
from my. .thoughts. /Mys heart ibeat quick, and I scarcely dared 
to raise my eyes. *One, Iisaw was in deep mourning. -I looked 
at him for a moment, hia eyes were fixed on!me, but he turned 
thenhwith indifference ' away.> • HisiicouUtenance I thought the 
fine.st I liad ever »seen. My grandfather turned round to look i 
at the strangers. I did the .same.- 1 The one in mourning 
walked slowly on — the other turned to look back, and I met his 
eyes, ;and turned away^»i but scarcely had I done, so, when 
soifcams from the. wonien iwe had just passed startled u.s, i . On 
look ingl round, we saw one of them running with an appearance^ 
of frenzy (to the neck of land,^ — weihurried to. the spot. The 
stranger in mourning inqiiired.into the cause, .for we, saw notliing. 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


413 


‘My cliildl.my child!’ exclaimed the woman, almost frantic 
with despair, and held back by the othei-s, while they, at tlie 
samCi time, .grasped their own children. The stranger -in mourn- 
ing rushed forward, asking at what part the child had- fallen 
in. My grandfather seized his- arm to detain him. He shook 
him offj and turned with a- look of .anger and contempt to i see 
who> stopped him but when he saw my poor old grandfather, 
who gently said do him, ‘it. .is impossible — you will only lose 
youri own life,’ the smiled with the most melancholy expres.sIoi^, 
saying, ‘ I care not ; ’ and then pushing . away somei other imm 
who had now come forward, ahdiwished to stop him, he plunged 
I into the lake. .For an instant he did not appear, and alb waited 
I in silent terror, dreading that he might have got under the ixxsk 
: which projected close over the water. His 'friend' was, with 
dithculty^j held back by the men, who increased in numbers. 
At last the stranger appeared, holding the child in one arm; 

: while, with the other he stemmed the current with astonishing 
ease.; and, after some prodigious efforts of strength, reached the 
I shore. A general shout of admiration welcomed him. The 
poor mother received her child on her knees - — the other women 
clung around him. .nHis friend seemed unable to expi*ess his joy — 

' while the stranger alone appeared little .moved, but by tltei grati- 
tude of the mother, who would not let him go, but kissed his 
hands, and clung about his knees. • He at last gently disengaged 
himself from them, saying, with an expression of such sad- 
ness, I shall never forget it, ‘ Oh! -if you knew how little I have 
risked!’ .! ■■ . ■’ • • j * n:' ff u i*'. ■ =t -irtHwir 

j . ‘‘(You will have guessed, my dear Lady Dunallanj’’!said Mrs.* 
f Clanmar, seeing Catharine’s eyes fill.. with tears, “that this 
humane sti*anger was: Lord Duhallan; his friend, my Clanmar. 

^ My grandfather was so delighted: by the humanity, and. so inter- 
■ ested by* the melancholy, ; and i indifference ' about life, iiu i the 
stranger, that t though tjhb in genei-al avoided forming new 
acquaintances, he went the day after the event* I have ijust 
! related to inquire for him, and- to offer him all the hospitality in 
i his power. He came back to me delighted ^wdth both him and 
I his friend; and his account of their conversation added to the 


414 


DUNALLAN ; OR, - 


entliusiasra with whicli I already admired the humanity, courage, 
and deeply interesting ■appearance of the onej and the devoted 
attachment of the other. They soon returned my grandfather’s 
visit,! and I !wa$ at last, introduced to their acquaintarice. I dared 
scarcely fventure to speak. I listened to Lord Dunalkin as to a 
beingi of . a superior order. • He* • seemed to feel pity for my 
timidity;, and /With that gentleness which ydu know; Lady Dun- 
allan, he possesses so much .more than other: men, encouraged me 
to enter into conversationi. / 1 did not, during their first! Visit, almost 
see iClanmar ; hut afterwards wLen li had gained courage, and 
could at my. ease fulfil my part in attempting to enteitaio our 
new guests, Lord Dunallan began to take less notice of me. ' I 
thought I had in some way offendled him, and tried all the means 
I could to induce him again: to converse, in his igentle and winning , 
way with me ; but he only became more cold, ahd addressed all ! 
his conversation: to 'my grandfather. Mr. Glanmar, on the 
contrary, seemed only to study my wishes. ; He was : so kind to 
me I could not long forget his presence, as I had dohe at first. 
HeHiad read just such books as I had read ; and understood all 
my feelings. I had never before met ; with any one who did, 
and his ‘ conversation became evbiy ; day! 1 more delightful to i 
me. . He. caine far oftener to i visit as than Lord Dunallan did. 
Ho discovered my hours of walking, and always acedmpanie<l 
me ;, and When Lord Dunallan did come to us, and talked with 
my grandfather^ Clanmar and. X conversed aside, or I sung or 
played to him. s Sometimes when so engaged, I observed > Loid 
Dunallan regard us with an expression of inquietude which I 
could not liudei'stand'. I asked Clanmar why his friend seeined 
disturbed at seeing us so happy m each other’s society. lAt firfet 
he evaded my question, then told liife that! Dunallan. was sorry to 
see him lOve me, because his < father wished him to love: a rich 
countrywoman of his own. . f But;^.saidIGlanmar to me, d cOuld 
you,! Annette, love whoever your grandfather eOmmanded you 
I felt that I teould .oiofey but asked if Dunallan himself could obey 
such an order. : ,'Glimmar told me i that. .Loid <Dunal)an had beCii: 
dngagedji since; a bo^, to marry a young heire-ssylto whom; he- 
was toi be united on his return home. iFrom tliat day I viewed 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


415 


; Lord: Limallan differently. I became afraid of liim, and ClanT 
I mar and I Were happier when we niet without his being presenti 
Ah I Lady Dunallan, had I known tliis young heiress theh!! I 
should only have thought the more highly of him for his choice, 

! buti thought^— : i;, ' : 

‘‘ Had you known,: my dear Mm; ' Clanmai^/ ^ : ; . interrupted 
Gatharinei' that this ^promise had been extorted from! him when 
a thoughtless boyy and that part of his inducement fdt dnivelling 
was' to avoid fulfilling it, you would liavte pitied hhh still; tnlore 
I than you did.’^ ^ - r - ■, ,ir i : M 

And was that' really the case? i' :■ ; j ;? if i-* 

*‘Yes,^ my dear 'friend ; and the ’shme promise had also keen 
; Won from me. When we met tb fulfil it^ we both regarded 
each otlter With prejudice and dislike.” ' ' ; i ; » ■ 

Ah I i I thought you did not feel for' Mri ■ Hunallan die de^ 
served, wheir I saw you then,” replied ' Mm.; Glamnar; ‘‘ I thought 
it might bd the waf your country, to ^assume cold, reserved 
manners'beforemarriage, but now you feel“-^-^-^;^bi' • - 'k> 

’ . i Now,” interrupted Gatharihe, I feel/ hchv unjust I wis 
hoWi perfbetly amiable i he -is but go 6n, my dear: friend.” h( > . , 

'-•^.Well, Glafimar and I, withdut avowing i it to^ each otlieiV 
avoided Lord LunailanJ Glaiiniar. devbted himself 'to me, and 
I' soon thought of no one bud hiin. I need- not tell: you, kad'y 
Dunallan, how captivating' Glanmar’s affection waS' to iho.-" I 
then thou ght love; ' Was ■ the kusineds of life J > ' ; Ah ! how i soon the 
dream was over; and Whie it lasted, it' was mixed with a/thou- 
saild pains; My : grandfather dqved Glanmar, andi wias pleased 
to see his ■ affection .'for me; He said h^ would' did in,* peace, if 
he saw, his child the wife of: so- excellent ahd* amiable -a young' 
man. He loved diim the better fdr being English; * He* loved' 
his couritry; alid was sure his rofiiatniic arid' feeling child worild 
be liappy among that refined find geiierous people.* This he 
often declared' to Claninar, who madb> no seoret* cif his love f6r 
me. At last my grandfather spoke on the same'- Subject' to 
Lord Hunallan. • He iriade no' i*eply, but on* thd same day Glitii- 
mar came to accompany me in my walk, looking so Veiy wi*etch’- 
I ed, that , I feared .some misfortune had happened to him. I im- 


416 


DUNALLANjl OK. 


jx>rtuned him to tell me the cause of his melancholy', and at last 
he told ine what had just passed between him and his friend. 
Lord Dunallan had declared, thati unless he instantly either 
quitted me, oi* openly/ asked me in marriage, he would inform 
my grandfather that Clanmar’s father never would consent to 
our union, and guard him against suffering me to indulge affec- 
tions which could only lead to misery. Clanmar did ;not then 
tell me all the convemation which had passed between his friend 
and him. If lie had, I neveivagain would have listened to him. 
He has §ince told me that Lord Dunallan tried first to convince 
him of his ingratitude and cruelty in attempting the ruin and 
misery of an innocent girl, whose ignorance and childishness 
made her an easy prey; and who had so anxiously seconded 
her aged parent in his kindness and hospitality and many 
other things he saiid which tny Glanm’ar ought not to have dis- 
regardledl He promised to intercede with Clanniar’s father for 
his forgiveness if he married .me but' Clanmar told me none 
of this. I shall pass over what followed. Nothing can excuse 
my consenting to ledve my kind and gentle parent when s6 old 
and dependent on me. I deserved all I have since suffered for 
that cruel and selfish step. Clanmar persuaded me to leave 
my peaceful home with him, and I have known little pedee ^nce; 
He persuaded me, tliat a Vow he had made to me, and; 'gave md 
in writing,' was all that was necessary to constitute marriage hi 
this eoimtryi' I had been happy while Clanmar spent his 
days with me at my grandfather’s; I then thought, that to be 
always with him would be happiness enough to ieornpensatd for 
every other thing, but I 'could not still the voice of conscience; 
Clanmar’s lOve could not make me forget ihy aged‘ parent;- 
whose happiness; had depended en me. We talked of sehtiraent 
and feeling, but I could not help regarding myself as the most 
unfeelh^ and.selhsh of human beings. Clanmar devoted him- 
self to toe. For a month we continued travelling from place 
to place, partly for Concealment, and partly to view that beau- 
tiful country. At i the end of this month, while wh wei'c one 
evening seated together at an open window of a beautiful res- 
idence which Clanmar had hired in a cliaiming valley many 


KNOW WIIAT. YOU. JUDGE. 4^17 , 

miles distant ; fi’om ,piy home, aud endcavoi.’ing to persuade 
ourselves tlipt we werp happy while each anxiously .rega:^ded 
the melapclmly expre^ssed . in the ; countenance pf t^C; ; other ; 

Clanniar becaine .suddenly as pale as death. 

“‘It is he himself! it is Dunallanl’ exclaimed he, starting up. 
I instantly fainted^ and fell lifeless, in his arms. , When I recov- 
ered Clannian was supporting me, while Lord Dunallan stood in, 
silenc^ near ,us, his . eyeSj^^ed, on me^ and ex;prqssive, only of 
the deepest pity. I started froni . Qanmar, and,, involuntarily 
knelt befojq.Lprd .Dunallan, and. pronounced the name of my 
grandjfathqiv 

“‘I left him well in health, Annette, but you know hq piust 
be, miserable.’ 

“ His voice was so gentle, I burst into tears, and sunk still 
lower on the,, .ground. He turned do Clapmar. . , 

“ ‘ What a change is here ! Clanmar. Bift I do not mean to 
reppDach — I .have np; ^itle to reproach any one. I will tell you 
the. promise I have made. I must fulfil it, or yojiir grandfather,. 
Annette, will sink into the grave,’ , ' 

“I shuddered;. . ‘.Only tell ; me what I must do,’ exclaimed !. 

“Clanmar would have raised me from the. ground. ‘No,’ 
said I, ‘ Clanmar, I am unworthy to stand in Mr, Dunallan’s 
presence.’ . , . 

“Lord Dunallan looked at me for a moment, then saidj 
‘Annette,,! would. willingly take your load of guilt instead of 
my own. Rise, unfortunate girl., , Why should one guilty being 
be thus humble before another He, raised me with an air of 
authority wdiich I could not resist. 

‘5.‘ Annette,’ continued he, ‘I have promised, either to. bring 
yourself back to your grandfather, or a writtqn, positive proof 
that you are Clanmar’s.whe*; Your grandfather will be satisfied 
with the, last, and the hope, pf seeing you before you leave 
Switzerland.’ i ■ 

. “‘I shall give him that,’ exclaimed I, ‘and does he forgive 
me?’ , 

“ Mr, Dunallan’s countenance brightened; he turned to Clan- 
mar. . ■ . , : ... 


li- 


418 


dunallan; or, 


“ ^ Am I not deceived, Clanmar ? can I have those proofs ? ’ 

“ Clanmar hesitated . ‘Oh yes,’ exclaimed I, ‘ you shall 

have those proofs, and Clanmar will again take me home.’ 

“Mr. Dunallan did not regard me, but looked at Clanmar 'for 
an answer. ' 

“ ‘ Mr. Dunallan,’ said Clanmar at last, ‘ I know not what 
entitles you thus to interfere in my concerns. I really must 
request that I may no farther be dictated to. I know not how 
to brook such officious interference.’ ‘ 

“ Dunallan’s countenance changed ; he turned to me, ’ I see 
Annette, you are deceived, there is no marriage. Do you con- 
sent to return with me if it is so ? ’ 

“ ‘ Oh, it is not so ? ’ exclaimed I, producing Clanmar’s written 
vow. ‘ 

“ Clanmar snatched it from me. ‘ Do you allow of his inso- 
lent in terfemice, Annette ? ’ ■ ' 

Clanmar,’ said Mr. Dunallan, firmly, ‘ I see you have 
deceived this inhbcdnt girl. Annette, what has led you to sup- 
pose a marriage has taken place ? ’ 

“ ‘Annette, I command you not to reply,’ exclaimed Clanmar, 
his eyes flashing Are. 

“ ‘ I ask you, Annette, in the name of your only surviving 
parent,’ said Mr. Dunallan, calmly, ‘ the name of husband only 
is more sacred.’ 

' “ I threw myself on my knees. ‘ I believe, before heaven, 
that I iim Clanmar’s wife ; he has given me a written vow; 
Ah ! Mr. Dunallan, can you l)elieve it otherwise ? Can you 
think your friend so wicked ! ’ * 

“‘A written vow !’ repeated Mr. Dunallan, looking at Clanmar. 
He was silent — indeed he had assumed an appearance of anger 
to conceal his real feelings, as he confessed to me afterwards. 

“ ‘ Annette,”^ said Mr. Dunallan solemnly to me, ‘ this is no 
marriage — you see Clanmar does not say it is. It w’ould be a 
maiTiage in no country. You have supposed it so, and there- 
fore you are still guiltless. Return to your parent. He still 
loves you, and will do W’hatever you wish to conceal your inno- 
cent misfortunes from the w^orld. If you remain longer here 
you must be guilty.’ 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE, 


419 


‘‘ I looked at Clanmar. 

‘“Will you leave me, Annette?’ 

“‘Never,. Clanmar; but have you deceived me?’ ‘I love 
you more, Annette, than all else that the world contains ’ 

“‘And yet deceives you,’ interrupted Dunallan. ‘Oh, 
Annette, how can you believe him ? It is self he loves. 
Clanmar, how can you deceive a being so devoted to you?’ 

“‘Mr. Dunallan, I beg you will no longer interfere. You 
see it is Annette’s choice to remain with me.’ 

“‘Is it, Annette?’ 

“ ‘ No. Oh Clanmar ! I must leave you — you allow you 
have deceived me — am I not your wife ? Speak ! you will not 
be questioned by a proud friend, but answer me. You know 
I will believe you. Am I really not your wife, Clanmar?’ 

“ He turned away — I followed him. ‘ Whisper it to me, 
Clanmar. I will believe a word from you.’ I clasped my 
hands in agony, and knelt before him. Clanmar is of a gentle 
nature. He was overcome. 

“‘What proof do you wish for, Mr. Dunallan?’ said he, 
haughtily. 

“ ‘ To see the ceremony performed myself before proper 
witnesses, that I may bear their testimony to Mr. Wietzmar.’ 

“ Clanmar hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘You shall 
have your wish, Dunallan; and afterwards I hope we never 
more shall meet.’ 

“‘Annette is perhaps not aware of ’the reception she may 
meet fron]L,your friends, Clanmar. She j^ossibly might choose 
rather to return to the peaceful, and still really innocent state 
from which you took her, than subject herself to their 
contempt.’ ‘ I speak plainly, Annette,’ said he, gently to me, 
'‘because you ought to know the truth.’ 

“ ‘ My wife shall never meet contempt ! ’ exclaimed Clanmar, 
haughtily. ‘Ah! how little truly! Mr. Dunallan stayed till he 
saw the marriage ceremony performed in the presence of the 
ihayor of the neighboring town whom he induced to attend, 
and several other witnesses. He then returned to my grand- 
father ; and kindly remained in his neighborhood until he saw 


420 ' DUN ALLAN; OR, 

that he had, in some degi'ee, recovered from the shock he had 
received from my ingratitude^ In sdme w6eks I returned to my 
hoiher ' My grandfather was again happy; ' We remained with 
h im until I had my first' little boy. I soon lost him. I never 
really knew grief till then. Clanmar too grieved deeply. jVly 
grandfather soon followed my baby to the grave; but I had the 
consolation ' to think I had made his last days happy. We then 
came to England, where I was indeed received with contempt. 
I have succeeded in doing this contempt in part away ; but 
Clanmar feels that I deserve it. Oh ! how often have I wished 
myself laid in the grave beside niy indulgent parent and my 
sweet baby. But now I have' learned not to repin^. I can now 
say, ‘It has been good for me* ta be afflicted.’ I have been 
taught to place my' hopes of happiness where alone they can be 
realized. But I will return to s^eak of Mr. Bunallan. AWien 
we came to England, we found the most unjust reports were 
believed respecting him, which he had nover contradicted. 
Clanmar was received more kindly than he expected by his 
friends, because they believed the marria'ge liad been made by 
the ‘ crafty Dunallan,’ as they called him. I attempted to 
defend his character, but only made matters worse. Clanmar 
still retained diis angry feelings till about a year ago, wlle'h 
Lord Dunallan came to r him, and I know not what passed ; but 
Clanmar was convinced of his injustice. He has been far 
kinder to me ever since — he has told the exact truth to his own 
family, and now loves Dunallan more than ever. But I am 
forgetting to tell you, my dear Lady Dunallan, hb^V unhappy 
Clanmar was, while without Lord Dunallan’s friendship. Lord 
Dunallan wrote many letters to Clanmar, which he never 
answered, t -'He wished to believe his friend had injured him. 

“ ‘ What title had he to iriterfere in my concerns ? ’ he would* 
often say ; but then lie would become thoughtful, and recall all 
Dunallan’s kindness to him, and his noble and amiable qualities. 
One day I agreed in Saying, that nothing but friendship for him, 
and pity for me, had given him any title to interfere. ‘Ah, 
Annette,’ replied he, ‘you would not say so if you knew all. 
Dunallan, the very first day I saw you, warned me against the 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


421 


danger- of indulging the admiration with which you had inspired 
me. I laughed at his fears, and he then declared that as he 
had- introduced -me into' your family (for your grandfather was 
so occupied wdth Dunallan, he quite overlooked me), he 
considered himself the protector of your innocence. I only 
laughed at his knight errantry but he again and again 
repeated this.’ Clanmar told me also, thnt Mr. Dunallan had 
not ceased to follow us from place to place, declaring he would 
never give up his search until he found, and at lekt attempted 
to rescue me from a state of guilt and misery, to which he 
considered ' ' himself in some degree accessory. Ah, Lady 
Dunallan, what cause of gratitude I have to 'himlf 'Will you 
express what I feel for me to him, for I have not courage.” 
Catharine tenderly embraced her humble and amiable young 
friend.' ‘ ’ r n 

“ My dear Mrs. Clanmar, you require no courage to ‘ say all 
yOu wish^ to Dunallan ; he feels for you the kindness of a 
brother, and the greatest esteem.”-' . ’ 

I “Esteem! AH, who can feel esteem for me, a poor uneducated 
foreigner, ignorant of all your customs, and of the ^information 
and accomplishments suited to my station ? If you knew the 
’ pains I have taken to acquire your language and yoiir manners, 
that I might not disgrace my husband : but I have not 
j' -succeeded. ^-Clanmar is kind to me, but I see it is from pity ; few 
f of his friends visit me. Oh ! how often I pray to be *removed to 
a happier state, and make room for one who would be woi-thy to 
fill my place, and would make Clanmar’s home what it should 
be — only I would take my little AVilliam with me.”- ^ ‘ 

Catharine wept with her friend.' “My dear sister,”- said 'she, 
affectionately, “ I shall never regard you as a more distant rela- 
tion. You are younger than I -- — ? ” 

“ I am nineteen.” ’ >; 

! “Well, you are younger — my younger sister, my dfear An- 
I nette, regard me as such. I think you may look for haf)pier 
daysl It is not your fault that you are not regarded with the 
esteem you deserve. It is the fault of your husband’s fHends. 
I will not say your husband ; but they are ill jud^d, as well as 

36 


422 


1)UNALLAN; OK, 

cruel, in this. Let/iis convince them they are so, my dear An- 
nette. You are far too humble. I do not mean in the sight of 
Heaven. Humility there is the road to perfection ; but you set 
too high a value on the opinions and attainments of others. 
Triist your own judgment, dear Annette ; guided by such piety 
as yours, it will lead you far more right than those to whom you 
,b(md. But we shall assist each other, my dear friend. I shall 
ask Hunallan to attempt to persuade Mr. Clanmar to come this 
^summer to his estate near Arnmore. We shall always be 
together. You shall teach me to be humble and lowly like you ; 
and I shall attempt to assist you in supporting your own opinions 
■and place in society.^ Hunallan will second me.” 

Mrs. Clanmar threw herself on Catharine’s bosom. ‘‘Dear, 
kind Lady Hunallan ! ” , 

Catharine pressed lier warmly to her heart. “ Sweet, amia- 
ble creature ! I shall love you too much.” ^ 

Clanmar ‘enteired j Ustyas Catharine said this.. He looked 
surprised, but greatly pleased. 

“Mr. Clanmar;” said Catharine, “if any thing could recon- 
cile; me to Hunallan’s illnes.s, it would be the acquisition of this 
dear friend and sister. We have adopted each other for such 
without your leave. Will you confirm dhe relation by your 
consent?” 

“ Ah, you are too condescending, too good,” began Mrs. Clan- 
mar. Catharine put her hand upon her lips. 

“Annette is highly honored,” said Clanmar, looking affec- 
tionately at his wife. 

“ Then I look upon it you allow of our being sisters, Mr. 
Clanmar, so good-by my beloved sister;” said she, kissing 
Mrs. Clanmar’s hand, and then hurrying away to her still dearer 
relation. 

Hunallan received her with even more than his usual delight. 
He soop, obseryed she had been in tears, and anxiously inquired 
the cause. . . . , ; i p. 

“ Tdiey were tears of pleasure, Hunallan. I have been listen- 
ing to an account of the humanity and courage and goodness 
of a very dear friend.” . ^ , , 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


423 


‘‘What happy friend was this ?” my* Catliarinein;-- L-ru-. 

■M ‘‘The best and kindest and dearest I have on^ earth,” ^i-eplied 
she, tears again starting into her eyes. “ Dunallan, why did 
you not at least tell me of your having risked your lifeUo save 
that child ?.'J You, too, can deceive, I see. You wished me to 
believe I knew all your history, and here is a part of it^ which 
if you had realty-wished me to love you, surely would not have 
been concealed.” ’ r, • 

Dunallan smiled, “Your sex, my Catharine, set an undue 
value on such exertions. A man would be a monster who could 
see a woman almost distracted from' the loss of her child, and 
make no effort to Wvent.”n Oyl.jrf 
“But when the other men made no effort — and when you 
were told you would only lose your own life, Dunallan ! ” 

“Had I been married then, Catharine,” replied Dunallan, 
smiling, “I might have hesitated perhaps.” ■ -ru* . ' .. 

.'Catharine went over part 'of' Mrs. Clanmar’s story, and de- 
scribed her piety, and humble opinion of herself. 

Dunallan was affected, and entered warmly into her wishes 
respecting her young friend.' He thought Clanmar would 
willingly consent to reside near Arnmore, provided he could free 
himself from his political engagements. “For I find,”* said 
Dunallan, “ that he has involved himself with some political 
demagogues, who wdll only make a tool of him.” ; ' f-i r- 

“ What is it you see to love in Clanmar, my dear Dunallan ? ” 
asked Catharine. “ But forgive me — what a question respect- 
ins: a friend! Do not answer me.” Sherblushed atiherown 
thoughtlessness. •< ; • ‘i • 

“Ask what you will, my own Catharine,” replied f Dunallan, 
smiling, “lam not surprised at this question. I can .scarcely 
tell why I love Clanmar. .Hie is one of those people every- 
body loves without knowing why, unless it is perhaps ’because 
he is always* keeping one uneasy about *him. Nothing but 
religion will ever preserve him from the endless, errors to which 
a character like his is exposed. A steady, ever-present, 
powerful principle is absolutely necessary for him, but he is yet 
almost a stranger to this.” ' ' • • 


. 424 : 


X)UJS ALLAN ; OR, 


“ And what is' any one- without it ? ” sMd Catharine. 

"T-ru6^ my Catharine, but I mean even for respectability in 
the eyes of the world. . Clarimar requires this internal guide to 
prevent his having twenty different opinions on the, same subject 
in as iqany hour^ Your amiable and humble friend will, 1 
hope, become, more known and respected, and then she may 
perhaps have influence, with Clanmar, who. at present regards 
her as an ignorant child, though he does love her. Indeed, he 
is mosti affectionate in his dispositions. But, my Catharine, it 
is late -T— r-T ” . 

“And you wish us to read, together. Does nothing ever 
make you forget your first duties, Dunallan i ■ 

He smiled. “-Do you wish to become my confessor, Catliarine ? ” 

“ For once I do wish it.” 

“ Well, then, I do not often forget such a duty as this, because 
the hour returns and .reminds me of it; hut I have sometimes 
passed it over, and would probably, w^hen engaged as I now am, 
do so still, if I had not learned that remorse, and the conscious- 
ness of ingratitude, are such very painful feelings, and so 
much more painful on every new offence, that I dread them 
more than I can cpnfess, to, you, unless I should . lay. open 
the Ibng series of struggles between conscience and tempta- 
tion, and hopes and fears, and happy horn’s, and dal'k and 
painful ones, which have brought me the little way, I. am on my 
pilgrimage, and now, my sweet partner on this journey, shall 
I confess you ?” : . 

“ Oh no, Dunallan.” 

“And when are we to become so completely one, my 
Catharine, as to be perfectly frank on every subject ^ on this 
particularly?” 

“We have not time to-night, and my heart is in a sad^ 
confused state,” replied Catharine. , . 

“You must not delay then, my love, to examine and bring it 
back to its lawful owner. All oiir blessings will only end in 
miseries if they come between us and Him.” 

He found a passage for her to read so suited to recall her 
wandering thoughts, that Catharine was. soon in tears; and a 


KNOW AVHAT YOU JUDGE. 


425 


conversation followed, in which Dunallan drew froihdier^ with- 
out her perceiving, his intention, the exact state of her mind and 
feelings on the subject on which they talked ; and . while .they 
converged, ‘mingled those advices ‘which his superior knOwh^dge 
and experience enabled him 'to give, so; ‘kindly,- so .tenderly, 
that Catharine felt this deep interest in her best concerns bound 
her affections more closely than ever to Dunallan,* while his 
feelings for her, during this conversation, seemed even painful, 
anxious, and tender. '' ' ■ -i- : • 


■ ■ ' •: !( i 

' " ^ - CHAPTER XXiV. ^ ' 

Dunallan now recovered* rapidly. Dr. Yemon allowed 
him to leave his apartment, but though it was now the second 
week of May, the weather was still too cold to admit of his 
going out; . , 

’ Catharine’s heart- was full of gratitude to -Heaven — and of 
happiness, when, in his usual dress, he again with her, joined their 
friends the first evening in the drawing-room. . He looked. thin, 
but well and animated ; and Catharine’s countenance expressed the 
delight- she felt, when she named him to Miss Morven, and saw 
in her- looks the impression his appearance and manners made ' 
bn her. Mrs. Clanmar was also present, and expressed her 
pleasure on again seeing him only by her looks and gentle 
attentions. Clanmar was not present.' Walderford, however, 
soon joined the party, -who 'were all too happy to talk very 
rationally. Walderford -only had it not in his nature to be 
playful; but he smiled when others were so; and particularly | 
enjoyed Mrs. Clanmar’s simplicity, her timid playfulness, and 
broken language. ■ 

“ Who do you think has arrived in London, * Lady Dunal- 
lan?” said Miss Morven. • • 

“ Who ?” asked Catharine. ^ * ‘ 

Mrs. Lennox and her daughter.” b' : ’ 

“ Rose ! I rejoice to hear it. You remember her, Dunallan ? ” 
3G* 


426 


dunallan; or, 


“ Perfectly. Walderford, you must guard your heart. Miss 
Lennox is exactly what you have ' told me you admire in wo- 
man. Walderford, that blush is, ominous.” 

“If I do -lose my heart,” said Walderford, “is there no hope? 
Is Miss Lennox already engaged? or do you mean to'infer the 
little chance I should have of making myself agreeable ? ” 

“Oh, certainly not but I expect when you do give up your 
heart, that it will be with a reluctant and desperate struggle. I 
hope I shall witness your efforts to withhold it? ” • ,, 

Walderford shook his head, “ You are mistaken, Dunallan, 
I on the contrary long to dispose of it.” 

“ Well,” said Catharine, “ do not form your opinion of Pose 
too hastily. She requires only to-be known to win any heart, 
I think ; but she is too modest, like my sister Annette. But 
my dear Miss Morven, what has induced Mrs. Lennox to come 
to London?” . t . 

“ A strange story is told. I cannot vouch for the truth of 
it. Mrs. Lennox, you know, has become a very fashionable 
lady. One requisite, in her opinion, to that character is, to 
make a great marriage for her daughter.” - : 

“ Alas ! ” said Walderford. 

“Well,” continued Miss Morven, smiling, “you do not know, 
perhaps, Mr. Walderford, that at Edinburgh the beaux consist 
cliiefly either of grave gentlemen of the law, who can never 
afford to marry younger than fifty, and who are not held in 
high estimation by the young ladies on first coming out; or of 
young professional men, too poor to marry ; or of young men, 
perhaps of good fortune, who are sent there to attend the uni- 
versity. So, in.ifact, the only gentlemen who can marry are 
j either above fifty;, or under twenty, unless, perhaps, a stray Na- 
bob may appear for a wonder, and they, too, are generally a little 
old. Among the young gentlemen last winter, the most capti- 
vating, or in other words, the one who possessed the largest for- 
tune, was a young Englishman, a Mr. Dudley, who was re- 
ported to be immensely rich.” 

“ From what part of England was he?” asked Walderford. 

“ From Hampshire, I l^elieve.” 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


427 


“My own cousin/* said Walderford, laughing, “I do not be- 
lieve there is a sillier fellow in England.’* 

“ That was Rose’s opinion, I imagine,” said Miss Morven, 
“ but Mrs. Lennox’s was different ; and indeed all the mammas 
agreed in courting young Mr. Dudley by the most flattering 
attentions ; and Mrs. Lennox had the happiness and triumph to 
see that Rose had very soon attracted the attentions of this 
charming youth. Rose, however, seemed to find those envied 
attentions very irksome, and avoided them with a degree of 
care, which only excited Mr. Dudley’s desire to be more assid- 
uous. Mrs. Lennox and Rose were continually differing about 
him, and George' Lennox joined his sister in thinking him sin- 
gularly deficient in every engaging quality. Rose, thus sup- 
ported by her brother, gently expostulated with Mrs. Lennox, 
on the impropriety of encouraging his intentions ; but her 
mother would not listen to her, and continued her flattering kind- 
ness to the gentleman, but played her cards so ill, that a sum- 
mons arrived for the young lover to return home immediately, 
his friends having other views for -him. He in vain attempted 
before his departure to make his sentiments known to Rose. 
She knew she would displease her mother beyond forgiveness 
by rejecting his addresses, she therefore never gave him an op- 
portunity to say a word on the subject. It is said, however, that- 
Mrs. Lennox and the young man came to an explanation, and 
that Mrs. Lennox had brought Rose to London, where he 
now is,‘ in the hope that wdien absent from her brother, she may 
be induced to consent to her wishes.” Just as* Miss Morven 
finished her story, the door of the apartment wars thrown open, 
and Miss Lennox was announced. 

“ Ah ! I thought so,” said Miss Morven. 

Rose w'as soon in Catharine’s arms. “ My dearest Lady Dun- 
allan, I could not be near you a whole day without seeing 
yon. Do I intrude ? ” added she, blushing on perceiving Dun- 
allan. 

“ No, my dear Rose, you cannot intrude.” 

Mrs. Clanmar and Rose met like sisters. 

“ You must regard Dunallan as an old friend also. Rose, said 
Caiharine. 


428 


DUN ALL AN ; OR, 


Rose smiled, and held out her hand to him. . “I believe, ray 
lord, you will value my friendship less now.” 

“ No, indeed, ray dear Miss Lennox,” replied Dunallan, kissing 
her hand, “ you must not think me so ungrateful, nor find any 
excuse for withdrawing your friendship from me in my pros- 
perity.” 

“ What does all this mean ! ” asked Catharine, smiling. 

“It. means, my dear Catharine, that at one time when I was 
very sadly treated by you, and every one else, and in very mel- 
ancholy circumstances indeed. Miss Lennox had the generosity 
always to treat me so humanely, that I could not resist express- 
ing my admiration and gratitude to her on that morning, which 
I believe you then regarded as the most miserable of your life.” 
repeated Catharine, smiling. 

“ Allow me. Miss Lennox,’’ said Dunallan, “ to introduce my 
friend, Mr. Walderford, to you.” 

Rose turned to Walderford. There was an expression of 
archness and meaning in Dunallan’s look at his friend, when he 
introduced him to Rose, which she did not see, but which called 
a blush into Walderford’s countenance, < and an air of embar- 
rassment, very unlike his usual self-possessed and composed 
manner.. Rose ..also blushed, and Dunallan turned to Catharine 
to conceal a smile he could not suppress. Walderford for some 
time could not overcome his confusion sufficiently to join in the 
conversation. 

Catharine inquired particularly about Elizabeth. I hope I 
shall soon see her now,” said she. 

“ Do you 1 mean to leave London immediately ? ” asked Rose, 
anxiously. 

“ Dr. Vernon says .we may perhaps venture to travel in a 
week.” 1 < , .. • , 

Rose sighed deeply. 

“ Doctors,” said Walderford, “ always mention a much earlier 
time than they mean, to please their patients.” 

“I cannot wish that to be the case now,” said Rose, “thouo-h 
I sliall feel in a strange land indeed when all my friends go 
Rway.” . . 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 4*29 

Rose seemed in very bad spirits, and soon took leave, saying 
she musi\ go, though she 'seemed really reluctant to leave a party 
so unlike that to which she must return at home. When she 
was gone, Dunallan, smiling, asked Walderford his opinion of 
her, . 

“ I shall certainly not tell you,” replied Walderford, laughing, 
^‘and I shall not long remain unrevenged,” ; , .rr,, 

“ It will not be easy, AValderford, to take revenge on me now. ^ 
I care not how much you suppose I am, in love.” ' , 

Catharine, when Walderford was gone, after expressing the 
pleasure it would give her to see Rose removed from her mother’s 
persecution into the care of such a man as Walderford — “ But 
why, Dunallan,” said. .she, “did you embarrass your, friend by 
your looks?” 

V “I cannot tell why, my Catharine — I was amused by his 
solemn air. Walderford’s happiness would be more increased 
by having some one to love and to love him, than any one’s 
I know except myself. I only wish him to be as happy as I 
am,” ; i, ■ . 

. For several succeeding evenings Dunallan joined his friends 
in the drawing-room. , He had been allowed to go out also ; and 
nothing seemed now likely to detain him in London above a few 
days longer. Catharine looked forward to their return to Arn- 
more with delight ; but with Dunallan she was happy anywhere. 
His usual vivacity and powers of conversation returned with 
his .returnirig strength. He was the life of all around him, 
while at the same time he always contrived to .lead the conver- 
sation to subjects which are generally thought little suited to 

increase the cheerfulness of society. . v r 

“Why should we ever do or think or say, wLat, is improj)er 
to be done or thought or said, in the presence of Heaven'? ” said 
he one evening when the usual little party were assembled. 
“ There is nothing in religion which forbids innocent gaiety of 
heart. Indeed, I now wonder how any heart can be gay without 
it'; and I,really never feel at' ease in conversation, until some- 
thing has been said to renund us all in whose presence we are. 
Oh! bow those people mistake , who think religion gloomy. 
What ignorance of its nature 1 ” i ! ' 


430 


dunallan; OR, ' 


Clanmar entered while he spoke. 

“ Ah, Dunallan ! ” said he, “ I wish I knew that secret of hap- 
piness' wliich you seem to possess.” 

“ Every one may know it, my friend, but you do not give 
yourself time to become acquainted with it. Plave you now 
disengaged yourself completely from your political friends, or 
does something still remain to be done ? ” ■ 

“ Oh, I cannot disengage myself. I wish I could, from my 
soul, but it is impossible, my honor is pledged, I find. I cannot 
go to Scotland.” 

“ Your honor pledged, my friend, what do you mean ? ” 

promised to support them during an election which is 
coming on. I must support them through every stage of its 
progress, and I do not cai*e one straw who gains it.” 

“ My friend, how can you be so weak ! tell the truth. Plainly 
tell your friends that you have undertaken what you feel you 
cannot perform ; and that you think it your duty to your coun- 
try, first to learn’^its constitution, before you attempt to interfere 
in electing its governors. Tell them with equal plainness, that 
until you arc conscious of being competent in some measure to 
the task, you wall not again appear to take any part, and that 
you do 'not then pledge yourself to any set of opinions. You 
need not conceal, my friend, that you are aware you have been 
deceived.” 

“I cannot, Dunallan — I may perhaps Write.” 

' “ No, that will not do. My dear Clanmar, what do you shrink 

from ? Is the displeasure of these designing men as much to be 
feared as the contempt of your country, and (he disapprobation 
of your own conscience ? Which of your party do you dread 
most to offend ? ” 

« Mr. F .” 

“Well, my friend, and why so? just because in some points 
he is really respectable. Go to him, Clanmar, and let him con- 
vey your sentiments to the others.” 

Clanmar laid his head, in dee{) and painful thought, on his 
crossed arms on the table. Dunallan stooped down and ear- 
nestly addressed him for some moments, in a voice too low to be 
heard by the others. 


KNOW< WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


431 


“ I will, my friend ! ” exclaimed Clanmar at last, hastily 
starting up, and instantly quitting the room. 

Dunallan attempted to converse, but was absent, and anx- 
iously thoughtful till Clanmar’s return. At last he entered. 

“ It is done, my friend ! Mr. F. did not blame me. He is 
to make my sentiments known. He confessed he disapproved 
of my, having been left ignorant of many things. I am free! 
My dear Annette, we shall go to Scotland 1 ” He seemed in 
complete joy. 

Mrs. Clanmar wmpt with pleasure. Walderford and Rose 
had been conversing apart, but now all joined in Cknmar’s hap- 
piness, it seemed so heartfelt ; and it was soon agreed that 
all the party should in a few weeks join Dunallan and Catharine 
at Arnmore, . 

Several days .passed away afteiv this, yet Dunallan fixed no 
day for setting out. His doctor had pronounced his recovery 
complete, and Catharine began to dread that something unpleas- 
ant detained him in London. He frequently appeared extremely 
thoughtful and uneas}'. 

“ My dear Dunallan,” said Catharine to him, at last, “ may I 
ask what now detains us in London ? I am anxious that you 
should again breathe the pure invigorating air of Arnmore.” 

Dunallan hesitated 

“ I shall not ask if you do not wish to tell me, Dunallan. I 
do not even wish to know, believe me : while I am with you I 
shall be happy anywhere.” 

“ My love, it is for your sake I do not wish to call your at- 
tention to the cause of our delay — now I believe you must know 
• — it cannot be much longer concealed. It is possible, my Cath- 
arine, that I may be called to attend the trial of St. Clair. I 
must remain because it comes on immediately, and I 
cannot remain without you — at least. I cannot be so little 
selfish.” 

“ Oh no, I only wish to go on your account, Dunallan.” 

And for me, my Catharine, where you are, is my earthly 
happiness.” 

Next day Dunallan told Catharine tliat St. Clair’s trial would 


432 dunallan; oil, ' 

come on the clay after, and that he was^ called to attend as a 
'witness. He seemed extremely uneasy. 

“What do you fear, Dunalian?” 'asked Catharine; “Did you 
not then assure inie that nothing serious was likely to be proved 
against St. Clair?” • • 

“ Yes, my love, and so I then thought ; but I find that during 
my illness all the truth was not imparted to me. I still hope, 
however, that my recovery may prevent any bad consecpiences 
to him, as to the charge respecting the duel ; but his bribing my 
servant, and so many of the''people at the post-office -'On the 
coast, to detain my letters, will, if proved, be considei-cd, I fear, 
as a very serious affair ; and indeed might have done very great 
injury to the 'business that took me abroad, by delaying my 
instructions, some of which were in fact from government, and 
were not of* a proper nature' to be made public at the time.” 

“ Will the cause of his doing this be brought forward on his 
trial, Dunallan?” asked Catharine, anxiously. 

“ Probably, my love, the cause will be urged in palliation of 
his guilt. You shrink from this, Catharine; you need not: my 
presence’ in the court will prevent any thing being said which 
ought to alarm your ’delicacy — ^ that, my Catharine, is now the 
peculiar charge of your husband ; and the feelings of this rela- 
tion are so well understood, and so perfectly respected, ‘that you 
have not the slightest 'cause for uneasiness.” “ 

Catharine, however, could not overcome this, and other causes 
of still greater uneasiness. Dunallan’s health was not yet suffi- 
ciently reestablished to ’make it safe for him, in her anxious 
opinion, to spend a whole day in a crowded and heated court. 
He only smiled at this fear; and still more when She' expressed 
her apprehensions at the idea of his again seeing ‘St. Clair. 

“ He has proved himself so revengeful, so desperate,” said 
she ; “you smile, Dunallan, but I do not think it so very foolish 
to have this dread of St. Clair.” 

“ Oh, my Catharine, how I love such foolishness 1 But this 
solicitude, so sweet to me, gives you pain; and, believe me, there 
can be iio cause for it. I wish that miserable St. Clair were as 
safe. ' How inixed are the feelings of our happiest moments ! 


KNOW WHAT YOL' JUDGE. 


433 


Now, when I thought all promised so fair — so delightful — here 
is a cloud — a weight upon my breast, which even your presence 
cannot wholly remove.” 

Dunallan took an early leave of Catharine next morning. 
He wished to have some conversation with a lawyer, ^ a friend of 
his, before he proceeded to the court." Catharine held his hand 
in hers, after he had re'peatedly and tenderly taken leave. She 
still found something more to say. He saw her unwillingness 
to part from him, and assumed a gaiety of manner, she perceived 
he did not ‘feel. 

“ I shall leave the court, my love, the moment my presence is 
no longer required.” • 

“ Dear Dunallan, adieu. God be with you.” 

He turned again to look at her as he left the room, and, smiling, 
raised his hand to heaven, — ‘ 

“The very hairs of our head are all numbered there, my 
Catharine.” 

He then left her. 

Catharine went to the window of her dressing-room which 
looked to the street. She saw him get into his carriage, and 
received his smile and bow. He was then driven rapidly away, 
and she remembered her last separation from him, at the door 
of her friend Elizabeth’s house, and all that followed. She 
reproaehed herself for her ungrateful want of trust in Heaven, 
after having already experienced such mercy. “ Oh that I had 
no will but that of God ! ” exclaimed she. “ I shall only know 
happiness then.” She spent the hour that still remained, before 
she should be called to meet Mrs. Clanmar, who had offered to 
be with her, in earnestly praying for Dunallan — for herself — 
and for the wretched St. Clair. When she met her friend, she 
found that Clanmar had also gone to the court. 

. In a short time Mrs. Clanmar and Catharine were joined by 
Ilose, who astonished them by the information, that Mrs. Len- 
nox hud just set out with Mrs. St. Clair, who had determined to 
be present at the trial of her soh. ' . 

“ Impossible ! ” exclaimed Catharine, “ it surely will not be 
allowed. The charges against him are of a nature too serious.” 
37 


434 


DUN ALLAN; OR, 


Every means,” replied Rose, “ were attempted to prevent 
•Mrs. St. Clair’s . going, but in vain. She said, that whatever 
Arthur had to suffer in this world, she would share it with him 
if it was possible. She persists in saying, at least, that she 
believes him completely' innocent ; and said she was going to 
witness his triumph over envy and calumny.' She has labored 
with the most unremitting ardor to interest in bis behalf every 
person in power to whom she could gain admittance. She has 
even condescended to implore Lady Fitzhenry to exert her 
influence over Sir Henry Moncton in St. Clair’s behalf, because. 
Sir Henry is supposed to be a favorite in a very high quarter.” 

Catharine rose and turned to the window at the last part of 
Rose’s speech. She continued. 

“Mrs. (St. Clair came to mamma last night to ask if she 
would accompany her to-day to the court. Mamma hesitated, 
and Miss Morven, who was with us, attempted to dissuade Mrs. 
St. Clair from going, offering herself to be present, and to 
inform her faithfully of all that passed. But Mrs. St. Clair 
was not to be dissuaded ; and there was something so touching 
in her affection for her unfortunate son, that, when no entreaties 
would prevail on her to give up her intention of being present. 
Miss Morven offered to accompany her, and then mamma also 
consented. Lady Fitzhenry, too, had proposed accompanying 
Mrs. St. Clair, who, proud as she is, did not decline her offer, 
because she had exerted herself so much in St. Clair’s behalf. 
Miss Morven was greatly annoyed on hearing tliat Lady 
Fitzhenry was to be of the party, but whispered to me, that at 
such a time she could not attend either to appearances, or to 
her own feelings.” ' ^ 

“And is Lady Fitzhenry really gone to be present?” asked 
Catharine, with as much composure as she could assume. 

“ She really is,” replied Rose. “ She called on her way, 
and mamma went with her. Miss Morven had gone before 
with Mrs. St. Clair.” ^ 

Catharine’s anxiety was greatly increased by this piece of 
information. She feared that Dunallan might see Lady Fitz- 
henry, and feel her presence excite emotions too powerful for a' 
scene so public. 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


435 


“ My dear Lady Dunallan,” said Rose, after for some time 
watching her friend’s thoughtful and disturbed countenance ; 
“are you displeased at your friend, Miss Morven, having 
accompanied Mrs. St. Clair ? . She thought you would not, or 
she never would have offered.” 

“ Displeased ! my dear Rose,, certainly not. I wish from 
my heart I could in any way. serve poor Mrs. St. Clair.” 

“ Mrs. St. Clair’s brother, and another gentleman are to be 
.with St. Clair,” continued Rose, “ and several gentlemen oftered 
to accompany Mrs. St. Clair, but, excepting a ;sister of her own, 
who is in bad health, she has no female friends in London.” 

Catharine’s uneasiness now increased eveiy moment. She 
sent two of Dunallan’s servants to attend in the court, as near 
as they could get to their master. She flew to the Avindow 
whenever -she heard a carriage approaching, in the hope that 
it might contain Dunallan himself. But the day passed on, 
and no one appeared from the court. Mrs. Clanmar and Rose 
attempted to amuse Catharine’s thoughts from the subject of 
her fears ; but finding they did not succeed, they then tried to 
convince her of the justice of St. Clair’s sentence, should it 
even prove a'severe one ; and when Catharine at last betrayed 
the real cause of her anxiety, they attempted to prove- that her 
fears AA'ere groundless, though Mrs. Clanmar herself began, as 
the evening adA'anced, to betray some alarm. ' i ' o 

At last a carriage drove rapidly to the door and stopped. It 
Avas Mrs. St. Clair’s. • -'ii . 

“Ah ! ”i exclaimed Rose, “it must be over, and St. Clair 
acquitted, or Mrs. St. Clair would not come here.” 

Miss Morven alighted from the carriage, and Catharine 
hurried down stairs to meet her. 

' “What has happened, Miss Morven? Is St. Clair acquitted? 
Where is Dunallan ? ” 

“ I Avill tell you all I knoAV, dear Lady Dunallan. The trial 
is not nearly over. Poor .Mrs. St. Clair could remain no 
longer; but do not let us stand here.” ‘ ; ■ ; ; ' 

They entered the draAving-room, and Miss Morven, quite pale, 
and completely exhausted, thrcAV herself on a sofii, and burst 
into tears. 


436 


DUN ALL AN J OK, 


Catharine stood by her as pale as death, dreading to hear 
what she should first say. Miss Morven struggled :to recover 
herself, and soon succeeded so far as to be able to speak. 

“ Lord Dunallan is now apparently quite well, my dear Lady 
Dunallan ” 

“Now! Miss .Morven, was he unwell?” 

“ At first he seemed overcome, but now he appears quite re- 
covered ; but I shall tell you every .thing. Poor Mrs. St. Clair ! 
It is her distressed . situation which has so overpowered me. 
Such a scene ! Unfortunate woman I ” i 

Miss Morven, with difficulty, regained sufficient composure to 
proceed. . ' 

“ You know we went to the court very early. I wished to 
place Mrs. St. Clair in some unobserved situation, from whence 
we could easily retire, should the circumstances' of the trial 
become too painful ; but, from some cause, which 1 cannot com- 
prehend, Lady'Fitzhenry chose the most conspicuous situation 
in the place, and from whence we were perfectly seen by poor 
St. Clair, and those who were called as witnesses. Mrs. ''St. 
Clair also preferred this situation. Poor woman, she trusted too 
much to her affections and strength of mind. The court was 
soon excessively crowded ; and from the conversation which I 
imperfectly overheard around me, I perceived that the public 
opinion was very strongly against St. Clair. I saw that his 
unfortunate motlier heard some of the remarks which were made 
near us, and I longed for the arrival of the judges, and of the 
unfortunate St. Clair, though I dreaded the effect his appearance 
might have on. his mother. • . ; 

“At last the judges and their attendants entered the court, and 
very soon after St. Clair. His appearance seemed to make a 
very favorable impression. A murmur of admiration and pity 
followed his entrance. You know he is strikingly handsome. 
He walked with a firm composure of manner to his place, then 
turned his dkrk eyes on the crowds -that surrounded him with' 
looks of haughty indifference. Poor Mrs. I St. Clair perceived 
the impression her son’s' appearance had made, and it produced 
a softness of feeling which, combined with his presence in such 


KNOW WilAT YOU JUDGE. 


437 


circumstances, had nearly overcome'her. However, she struggled 
for composure, and after some effort succeeded. , When the 
preliminary forms were over, Lord Dunallan was called as a 
witness respecting the letters which; St. Clair was accused of 
having intercepted. I perceived by the bustle and anxiety to see 
him, which prevailed in the court, that he was an object of great 
interest. When he approached there was instantly tlie niost 
complete silence. St. Clair regarded him with looks which are 
still before me. I. never saw a countenance express so much 
malevolence. Lord Dunallan seemed to avoid looking at him. 
Mrs. St. Clair, apparently participated in her sou’s feelings. She 
said, in a voice of suppressed indignation, ‘ Specious hypocrite ! 
At that moment, for what cause I cannot conceive. Lady Fitz- 
henry chose to rise and stand forward in her already conspicuous, 
situation. This movement attracted the attention, for a moment, 
of every one. Lord Dunallan also looked to the spot, and, I 
suppose, he perceived Mrs. St, Clair, for he instantly became 
deadly pale, and turned away his eyes with an expression almost 
of anguish ; and seemed, for a moment, scarcely able to recover 
himself. ‘ He is still, unwell,’ was whispered -by those around, 
me. ‘ He has not recovered from his wound. He is unable to 
bear the heat. What an interesting countenance ! ’ He was 
requested to be seated, and windows were thrown open ; but he 
declined' sitting down, and declared himself perfectly able to 
proceed. While, giving 'his evidence, you cannot conceive the 
deep melancholy which his countenance expressed. Even his 
voice was affected by it, and was low and sad. While he spoke, 
the court was so still a whisper might have been distinctly heard ? 
and all he said was so expressed as to give the most favorable 
construction possible to St. Clair’s intentions in stopping his 
letters. The audience seemed so much alive to this generosity, 
that each of his mild extenuating ;answers was followed by a 
murmur of applause; and he so far succeeded that, at the close 
of his evidence, 1 believe every person present felt more pity for, 
than inclination to condemn St. Clair. His mother’s countenance 
brightened, and 'she looked! around her, as if a- weight had been 
leinoved from her. spirits, but said nothing.. The next witnesses. 
33 ^^ 


438 


DUNALLAN; OR, 


were people from the post-office. They were very particularly 
examined, and their evidence was long and complicated. On the i 
whole, however, it went very much to criminate St. Clair. After | 
this, his own servant was called. On being asked at what time | 
he had entered St. Clair’s service, or some such question, he j 
detailed very fully the means taken by St. Clair to induce him j 
to leave Lord Dunallan’s and enter into his service. He also ] 
entered warmly into praise of his former master. During this | 
part of his evidence St. Clair’s lawyers interfered, and-desircd i 
the man to keep to the point, and answer only to the questions 
which were put to him. These answers, however, became more | 
and more disgraceful to St. Clair, and as they agreed completely 
with the evidence which had gone before, the impression against 
St. Clair seemed every moment to increase, and very strong 
expressions were used by those around us. Mrs. St. Clair 
became very pale, but succeeded in suppressing every other 
appearance of emotion. I soon observed, however, that she 
trembled, and breathed very quickly, though she attempted to 
overcome' her agitation. I entreated her to leave the court, on 
account of the heat and pressure, but still she refused, though she 
could scarcely articulate. I expected she would faint, and even 
hoped she would, that she might have been conveyed from such 
a scene. Every new discovery implicated St. Clair still more 
in meanness and guilt. Lord Dunallan will give you particulars. 

I was too much occupied in watching Mrs. St. Clair’s looks to 
hear distinctly what passed. St. Clair’s own countenance now 
began to betray some emotion. At times he became pale. 

“ Lord Dunallan had retired. I had not seen him after he 
gave his evidence. At last the examination of St. Clair’s, 
servant respecting the intercepted letters was closed ; and after 
some business which I did not understand, about the second 
charge, which however was connected with the first, he was 

called on to give his evidence regarding the meeting at 

Farm. Mrs. St. Clair, however, by that time looked so shock- 
ingly ill that I could scarcely attend in the least to what passed. 
Lady Fitzhenry joined me in imploring her to leave the court. 
She scarcely seemed to hear us, but sat with her eyes fixed on 


know WJIAT YOU JUDGE. 


439 


her son. The expression of his countenance seemed to regulate 
her feelings, for I do not think she 'distinctly heard or understood 
what passed. The people around us seemed to have at last 
discovered the deep interest she felt in the poor criminal, and 
no longer made any remarks, but very humanely attempted, by 
opening a wdndow, and other attentions, to assist our efforts to 
render her as easy as possible. At last I heard St. Clair’s 
servant desired to repeat the expressions made use of by his 
master respecting Lord Dunallan, the evening previous to their 

meeting at Farm. He answered that, on that evening, St. 

Clair had called his servants, 'and said to them, ‘ I mean to go 
. abroad immediately. I wish two of you to accompany me. 
.1 shall positively leave England as speedily as I possibly can 
after to-morrow morning.’ He had said also on turning away, 
and supposing he was left alone, ‘ Dunallan shall not live. This 
time I shall be able to secure revenge — revenge which will be 
felt by you, too, Catharine.’ ‘ Shocking ! ’ was murmured 
through the court. St. Clair became very pale. Two other 
' servants confirmed this part of the evidence. Mrs. St. Clair 
drew her breath long and deeply two or three times, and, after 
, a violent struggle with her emotion, sobbed convulsively aloud ; 
then uttering a piercing scream, put her hand to her head, and 
starting from her seat with a look of frenzy, stretched out her 
arms towards her son, and, in a wild and loud voice, exclaimed, 
‘ Arthur 1 my son 1 save him, save him ! ’ The whole court 
became confused. Some officers of justice approached, and 
placed themselves near St. Clair, who had started up on hearing 
' liis mother’s voice. It was with the greatest difficulty that 
several gentlemen succeeded in carrying Mrs. St. Clair to her 
carriage. When we got near the door I saw Lord Dunallan, 
who kept off the crowd, but did not approach. I suppose he 
: feared Mrs. St. Clair would recognize him. When Mrs. St. 

Clair reached her own house she was quite delirious. A doctor 
I was immediately sent for, who has ordered her to be kept 
I perfectly quiet. I wished to remain with her, but she did not 
I know me, and screamed dreadfully whenever I approached her. 
'• She continues to talk without a moment’s pause. The doctor 


440 


DL'NALLAN; OR^ 

hopes she will wear herself out, and fall asleep ; but should she 
awake to the full sense of her son’s situation, I fear she will 
again relapse into the same dreadful state.” 

Miss Morven with difficulty finished her account of what she 
had witnessed. Gatharine listened, pale and trembling and | 
terrified. She attempted to speak, but could not, and all j 
continued silent for a few moments. 

“There is but one' way of regaining composure of mind,” ! 
said Miss Morven. “ God alone can give us right views of his 
•providence at such times. This unfortunate mother ! But He 
is wise and just and good in all his ways, however dark and ! 
awful they may appear to his ignorant creatures.” 

“Wretched mother ! wretched St. Clair! ” exclaimed Catha- 
rine. “What do you think will be the end of this trial. Miss 
Morven?” 

“ Oh ! I cannot bear to look forward. Let us trust every ; 
future event to God,” replied Miss Morven. “Maybe have I 
mercy on that- unhappy hardened being! Had you seen him 
to-day — how haughty hfe looks! at least during the first part 
of his trial, for they were greatly changed before I left the court, 
though still he attempted to look defiance and contempt on all 
around him.” 

“ When will it be over ? ” asked Catharine. 

“ It is impossible to say.” 

“Did Dunallan seem perfectly well when you last saw 
him ? ” 

“Perfectly so. He looked mild and calm as an angel, 
though much shocked, and very sad.” 

The evening passed- on. Ten 'o’clock, eleven, twelve, and 
Dunallan did not appear; Catharine’s anxiety became almost 
overpowering. She had sent one servant after another 
to inquire whether the trial was over. The last messenger did 
not return, though he had been much longer absent than neces- 
sary. She now sent another, and herSelf watched at an 
open window for the approach of every carriage or sound of 
footstep on the now almost deserted streets. Sufficient time for 
the return of the last messenger passed away, but he did not 


KNOW WHAT. YOU JUDGE. 


441 - 


appear. Miss Morven entreated Catharine' to bcT composed, 
representing the impossibility of St. Clair having it in his power 
at such a time to injure Dunallan. • . ' v ■ 

“ You do not know St. Clair,” was Catharine’s only reply, 
while she stood listening, almost in a state of distraction, to the 
sound of carriages which .rolled past at a distance. ; . ' '' 

At last one seemed to approach rapidly. It entered the square. 
Catharine flew down stairs, followed by her friends. The street 
door was opened by a servant, who had also been / watching 
below. The carriage stopped, and Dunallan instaptly pushed i 
open the door, and jumped out. On perceiving Catharine <he 
stopped abruptly. She rushed forward. 

“ Ah, Dunallan ! you are safe. My God, I thank thee !-” 

He clasped her closely to his heart, but liurriedly and in 
silence. She felt, as he supported her on the stair&,:‘that he 
trembled violently. They entered the drawing-room together. 

^ Catharine looked at Dunallan. He was very pale, and an 
expression almost of horror was on his countenance. • ' 

“ Dunallan ! What has happened ? Is St.’ Clair— ” -d; 

Pie shuddered, and turned away. . , • o 

Catharine followed him. “ What dreadful event has happened,’ 
Dunallan?” v-i 

“ My Catharine, are you prepared ? ' ]Mo, you cannot ! How 

shall I .” He clasped his hands in agony. id; u . i 

“ Oh, merciful Father, make us to feel thy presence support 
us — give us. to believe in thy unerring wisdom and justice.” He 
stopped. * i • '* ■ ;• i ‘ ■ 

“We cast ourselves on thy compassion. Oh Lord ^ reconcile 

us to thy will. ^ Bring good out of this dreadful event- 

Catharine trembled violently. Dunallanvprayed in short and 
hurried sentences, but. he became more calm as he proceeded. 
At last he prayed for pity on the unhappy parent who had so 
suddenly, ISO dreadfully, been deprived of her wretched son. 

“ What do you mean, Dunallan ! What did you say?”’’ 

“ My dearest Catharine, you are prepared for something very 
shocking. The unhappy St. Clair is no more,” ■ • ' 

“No more! Is he dead, Dunallan ?” . 


442 


DUN ALL AN ; OR, 


‘‘He is, my love. Be composed, my Catharine.” ’ 

“ But how, Hunallan ? Ah, I guess .” She put her hand | 

on her forehead. Hunallan was alarmed. He soothingly | 
drew her into his bosom, and in the gentlest terms attempted to 
raise her thoughts to the all-wise Ruler of events. i 

“ Well, my dear Hunallan, tell us all. I shall imagine every 
thing dreadful till I know the truth.” 

“ You shall know every thing, my dearest Catharine. After 
Miss Morven left the court with the unfortunate Mrs. St. Clair, 
the servant proceeded in giving his evidence. Each interroga- 
tion produced an answer more fatal to St. Clair than the preced- 
ing. I fear he really intended the worst that was suspected. 
Wretched! miserable being ! ” Hunallan, with difficulty, pro- 
ceeded. “ Clanmar, Cameron, and myself were examined. I 
thank heaven that my evidence in neither case went to crimi- 
nate him. That, however, was of no avail. The evidence 
given by his servants too clearly proved his guilt. After all the 
witnesses were examined, St. Clair was informed that then was 
the time to offer his defence. He then rose, and said he wished 
to put one question to me. I was requested to return into the 
court. St. Clair’s lawyers w^ould have come forward, but he 
himself stood up, and for a moment looked round on the crowd. 
There was. something wild '•and irresolute in his look. Several 
of the attendants of the court stood near him. He waved his 
hand impatiently for them to stand off, and the judge in pity of 
his apparent, Embarrassment, motioned to them .to obey, and 
they left him quite unguarded, kle then fixed his eyes .on the 
judge, and said, in a low and deep tone of voice, 

‘ My lord, I have a defence to make which will free me from 

all disgrace .’ He then turned to where I was, ‘ My lord, 

this is my defence.’ He, in an instant, put his hand j to his 
breast-^ drew a pistol which he fired at me — and before he could 
be stopped, put the muzzle of another into his mouth, and fell, 
into the arms of those who had rushed forward to seize him. 
All was over in a few dreadful moments. The ball fired at me 
entered the wall behind me-^-no one was hurt.” , 

“ Oh God, I thank thee ! ” exclaimed Catharine, in the deep- 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDOE. 


443 


est tone of gratitude, while her countenance remained pale, and 
expressive of the utmost horror. 

Mrs. Clanmar, Miss Morven, and Rose were equally shocked. 
Mrs. Clanmar inquired' for her husband. - 

“ He has gone with Cameron to Mrs. St. Clair’s to inform her 
friends of this dreadful event.” 

Clanmar soon appeared. “Mrs. St. Clair,” he said, “still 
continued quite delirious, raving incessantly about her son.” 

. Rose now expressed some anxiety respecting her mother. 
“Are you sure. Miss Morven, that she' w^as to call here for 
me?” - - 

“Yes, quite so. But she promised not to>'leave Lady Fitz- 
henry, who was dreadfully shocked by Mrs. St. Clair’s ill- 
ness.” > 

Dunallan started ■ — ■ “ Shocked ! how did it aifect her. Miss 
Morven?” ^ ^ i d • 

“ Unfortunate creature!” replied Miss AIorven,‘“ even I could 
not help feeling for her, though Mrs. St. Clair’s situation was so 
dreadful. • When w'e went to Mrs. St. Clair’s house, we found 
•Lady Fitzhenry had arrived there before us, for she had shrunk 
from going in the same carriage with the poor sufferer. Mrs. 
St. Clair seemed pleased when she approachedfher, though she 
addressed her in the wildest terms. Lady FitzHenry, however, 
seemed' in horrori-when w^e proposed her remaining wdtli poor 
Mrs. St. Clair, till some of her own friends should come to her. 
‘ For heaven’s sake^Mo not ask me ! ’ exclaimed she — ‘ I should 
soon be in the same situation — I feel it ! — I feel it ’ — and she 
clung to me in such terror, I dreaded she w^as right, and hurried 
her to a distance from the painful scene.'' I attempted to soothe 
her, and she soon burst into tears, and turned away from me, 
saying — ‘ Forgive me. Miss Morven, I know you feel my pres- 
ence pollution.’ Mrs. Lennox just then entered ; Lady Fitz- 
henry entreated her to accompany her home — ‘I Cannot spend 
this day alone 1 ’ said she, shuddering. 

“ Mrsj Lennox hesitated — and named Sir Henry Moncton — 
‘ you distract me by mentioning him at this moment I ’ exclaimed 
she wildly. ‘I entreated Mrs. Lennox to accompany her. 


444 


DUNALLAN; OR, 


Perhaps she supposes you are gone home, Pose ; or they may , 
have heard ” 

“They must have heard what has liappened,” said Dimallaii 
“ Oh ! if this dreadful event should awaken ” — : — he stopped — and 
Miss Morven and Pose soon after thought themselves obliged to 
take leave. ' ' . 

i When Catharine was alone with Dunallan, he again sought 
consolation from Heaven, and thus succeeded in calming his own 
and her spirits. After having conversed over all that had 
passed, and Catharine had entreated Dunallan to tell her every j 
particular, — ' | 

... “ What a day you have spent!” exclaimed she. “ I dread its I 
effects, my dear Dunallan.,, How much misery one guilty being i 
can produce ! ” I 

Dunallan sighed deeply, but remained silent. “ Oh, Dunallan, 
how much happier would you have been had you never known 
me I I have- only been the occasion of one misery after another 
to you.” ■ 

“ YoUj Catharine ! yoU: are my first earthly blessing. . I would 
not exchange your sweet affection — ^ ydur dear confidence — for 
all else that the world contains. lionly wish I was deserving of 
your tenderness,. my too, too partial love.” 

“Partial! Dunallan.” . > 

-.v; “ If you thought of me as I deserve, Catharine, you would 
not feel thus kindly for me. But God. has this day avffully 
reminded me of my unworthiness, and of his mercy.” 

“ How, my dear Dunallan ? ” • ; 

“ When, my love, I rose to witness against another, who do 
you think stood exactly opposite to me? The ‘guilty, unhappy 
Aspasia ! She wished me to see her, and to feel ail the misery 
at that moment which she knows her continued guilt occasions 
me. Had she seen my heart she would have been satisfied. Oh 
how my sins returned upon me at that moment in all their most 
guilty colors ! I felt as if those around me meant to mock me 
by their, respect and attentions, while the invisible Searcher of. 
hearts seemed to be calling to my remembrance, that he against 
whom I stood up to witness, was, at least ill his sight, no more 


KNOW WKAT YOU JUDGE. 


445 


f guilty than I had been. The same awful voice that pronounced, 
amidst surrounding terrors, ‘ Thou shalt do no murder,’ imme- 
I diately added, ‘Thou shalt not commit adultery.’ Oh! had the 
1 prayei-s for St. Clair, which my heart poured out to Heaven, 

) while my lips witnessed against him — had they been heard ! 
but all — all must be best.” 

; Catharine and Dunallan next morning determined to set out 
1 for Arnmore as soon as they possibly could. Dunallan him- 
self went at an early hour to inquire for Mrs. St. Clair. 

“ She is now quiet,” replied he, on his return, to Catharine’s 
inquiries; “ but the doctors have a bad opinion of her case. 
She is not ill in health, but deranged in intellect. Her brother 
and sister are with her. I saw the former. He thanked me 
for the manner* in Which I had given my evidence. He lament- 
ed the fate of his unhappy nephew ; but seemed to have been 
little acquainted with him: and, appeared more anxious about 
the disgrace he had brought on his family than any thing else. 
He seemed to hope the manner of his- death would, in some de- 
gree, do this away, — so differently do men of the world judge 
from the word of God.” 

I ^ “And now, my Catharine,” added Dunallan, “we may leave 
this London.” . .1 • *> 

I ^ During the day Catharine took leave of her friends ; but only 
for a short time. They all promised to follow her to Scotland, 
■and visit Arnmore in less than a fortnight; even Rose Lennox 
!i could' make this promise with her mother’s consent. Miss Mor- 
I' -ven accounted for this by saying, that she had informed: Mrs.* 
I 'Lennox that Mr. Walderford was also going to Scotland, and 
by some other means Mrs. Lennox had ascertained that Mr. 

! AValderford’s fortune was even greater than that of his cousin, 

' Mr. Dudley. 

In the evening all was in readiness, and Catharine when again 
-shut into the carriage with Dunallan, and rapidly hastening 
from the scene of her late terror and misery, felt her heart be- 
come less burdened every moment. Dunallan participated in 
her feelings. : ^ ’ 

“How beautiful! how charming!” exclaimed Catharine con- 

38 


446 


DUNALLAN; OR, 


tinually, when, clear of the town, they proceeded through- a 
delightful country, now clothed with- all the iluxuriance of :the 
first days of summer. The evening was fine,- and its 

balmy air, and the glories of the setting sun, excited feelings in 
Catharine’s breast more than usually powerful, from their long 
suppression while confined to a sick-room in a melancholy street. 

Gh w'ho would live in a town ! ” exclaimed she ; half our 
feelings, our most pleasurable feelings, are lost!” 

Yet the recollection of the miserable St. Clair soon overcame 
these feelings of rapture. He, too, had been exquisitely alive 
to the beauties of nature — to the glories of such scenes as she 

now beheld. What now were his ! She riiade an effort 

to banish him from her thoughts but in vain. Dunallan, too, 
sat in deep and apparently most painful thought. 

: 'They travelled on in the long and calm twilight. At length 
the moon rose, and softened by its pale light all the surround- 
ing scenery. Its soft influence soothed Catharine’s disturbed 
feelings to perfect peace. Tor - some time Dunallan remained 
silent. Catharine did not disturb him. Her thoughts, however, 
were of him. She pictured in her imagination the happiness 
•she would see him enjoy when the present dark cloud had pass- I 
ed away, — when he might devote his whole life to the service ! 
of that Being who possessed the first place/ in his affections, ! 
, without those miserable feelings, arising from the dreadothat | 
he was the cause of rendering any one unhappy, — when he | 
should feel himself surrounded by those only who loved him. | 
.She pictured herself sharing in his happiness. Arnmore, with 
'all its romantic beauties, was present to her imagination — her fa- 
vorite walks, — Dunallan would now be there with her, — they I 
M'ould pursue all their plans, — all their most serious pursuits, — 
all their pleasures together. She pictured Mrs. Oswald’s, joy ! 
on- their return, — she saw the children again in Dunallan’s 
bosom, she knelt beside him at prayer. A deep sigh from Dun- 
allan inferrupted her dream. « ! j.. 

i “ Why do you sigh so deeply, my dear friend? ,I think such 
a scene as this ought to inspire only peaceful, pleasurable feel- 


KNOW WHAT YOU JUDGE. 


447 


“ Tell me what your feelings are then, my Catharine, for I 
cannot force my thoughts from the dreadful scene of last night. 
The contrast of this soft and glorious light produces feelings in 
me more deeply melancholy than I can express. Where were 
your thoughts, Catlrarine ? ” 

“ At Arnmore.” 

She drew a picture of the future so charming, that she 
gradually won Dunallan’s thoughts from their gloomy subject ; 
and when they stopped for the night, his conversation had, in some 
degree, regained its usual vivacity. 

Each day brought the travellers nearer Arnmore, and seemed 
to leave their late misery at a greater distance. 

At last Catharine’s dream was realized. They arrived at 
Arnmore on a beautiful evening. The scenery appeared to her 
even more magnificent than when she had first beheld it. Mrs. 
Oswald’s joy was still greater than she expected. 

“ My beloved Catharine ! ” she exclaimed, as she pressed 
her again and again to her bosom ; “ dear nurse, wife, every 
thing ! You now feel for Dunallan, as I knew you would. My 
happy nephew ! ” 

“Your happy niece! you ought to say, my dear aunt,” re- 
plied Catharine, tenderly. 

“My aunt is always right,” said Dunallan, around whose 
neck the children were fondly clinging. 

“Ah, I did not know you were listening,” said Catharine. 
“ You little ungrateful things,” added she, joining him in fond- 
ling the children, “ you always forget me when he is present.” 
Tliey clasped their little arms around her neck also. “ Dear, 
dear aunt Dunallan ! ” 

Catharine’s dream was still more completely and happily 
realized, when she again knelt beside Dunallan, while, surround- 
ed by his delighted family, he offered his grateful thanksgivings 
to Heaven, and implored those blessings and graces for all, 
necessary to fit them for the duties of life ; and that renovation 
of soul which should prepare them for the holy joys of an im- 
mortal abode in heaven. 


' THE END. 


h t X 






1 Yut v(U'’/?.rY;') yri .I'Oib 

♦ ’ 

■If: xr^^ivib'b 

'm. '■ y. I';;" 

. ’'jb (iiu'-'i i 

■is, -.^-wfb.U tdpil 

. S. •—4 . - • * 

• r: ■;54 b :u 

ii .>r,u'y' /. :j Lii/ 

: L Itfutj vio 


<• » 


Lm \ 


’i(^tulVU 




oa-. 


f '■ il 1 

ii'i 

{.J b'. 

'■•fib''; 

.; ’.void 

i 



lu. 'u 

* 

*'Jj iao 


Jt o': 

I'O'Y -/! 


ftiPul-. 

ill itn.* 

•Luvno;> 

till ^ 


oiliz. 

a ■ ;qq; 

b? (. i- 

i.ti 





.'ilvi 

• r 

r.' ii* 

iir-. ' tf'ii 

baaij;^ •£ 

OY'IIi-. 


f.ii Liixi , j lOiia 

rL/-. *V‘r? 

rjr 

• 'laiL; 

y S . . 

Jf 






■; >j. 

i; ja ( 

■ 

■7;I 'li ai.; 

y < 

Jj h' 

Dyiiij; v -iTr 

•• 


j;v'i 

hii'ir . 

f\ii 


'aL.i.rJ 

r:i 1' • 

(' 

* ].’y'i:r>('< t. '■■ 

i % « 


nil' 

. ? 



luV 

■.itJ n [:<> 


. :nL 

..li i.bd'id 

*ir* i/'.i.- 


li ‘i- 

£aa/b 

: hi: ,.i: 

-r'iariT 'S'u 

•iU ii.. 


i;-: 

4i’- ■'■i.Z::) 


nt:di 

■ ■ ' ' ■ ! 

1, n:‘: 

VGf f: 

.ill- H ' 

. 

Y ; Olb t-a jL 

'■jY'ial.aj 


r f; 

.b:/. 

, iHb 


f* ^7tV>C: 

'(14 “ 

V ; 

t pdi'. ' , yfe':! ;; 

.. ^ 


.1 

cb .'iKiP 

^ :*T:; ■*’ 

. g 


* •* 

•w 

.ljhs<s-y uyv : 

Y u/ ! 

* : 

I' 

V 

ib* 

' -1 ' 

■',■(;! I iiO ^ 



\ 

• 



- 

i 

■' .' YDi'ijaiL 7; i p 

♦ f 

- ;rr 

Y.‘ 

it 

Gj 


.• • j* 

* j \ ^ r 

'4 

'. 0 

■'(iqr.b 'r 

:OY " 






» ‘ 

• r 


uy 

.Oil' 

.V J»: ar:.:. ,U' 

iifMU.i I 

Li': 

■v b.Ui...ri 

r 

■ Vi' ■■ G 

si auau 

** r 1 ■ 1 • * 


.T»>Ui?'fu j v'l'fioi f'‘rj ■ :vyiblU{i) tiiU ;[*> >!i. 


) blnb :: I 'w/- u ,v_ v/on^l. Jyfi Lib 1 '• 

-bnoi ni flird ■'Mii: \) ■\ th' !'. olHl: 

iJiJ' VU{ pit i!''- I'/r ft':;. 1'jp ;bi‘' >YiV.v!.;: rov “ ,f'‘ 'd ::b .niiT '^iri 






.O'-b; :.. ’i'll )>j': : . ...a; oiltif ‘liuifj V').! T 

-• ♦ ' 

• * bifdl.nji:.; ’ Kfj'/j i.flo.b 

W i j.'. f ■ r . ^ • 

-bauprir,- / 'id /'■ ,(udn;£i''(I il .nA tYKi j; ,b')Ni! : ,o'i 

c;3^f:i7i-g';lru:!^ i bir*1, 'ig b-rtdbtt •:.* u;j;ir :■ ba V(i L't, 

/i<>t . !■: , '.'.d Or-^.h b-i :. 'r:nH ba.- . v.iVjil ■ oj 

noi:-;vo';'rt iut l i ■ 'i : -.tbi io :'^i!rjb Mii) ■trfi :(/! o, yrr.^ --.jr 

- rii /m ‘lo f.Tuj;, '{;[o4i Oib i/n f/r. I.Juoda .y 'io 

\ • . 4:;>V.t>)ll (d ‘li'-. itj binu.f'i 



c^i'V 


JTJST I’XJBniiZSIiEID = 

SCIENCE IN SHORT CHAPTERS 

By W. MATTIETJ WILLIAMS, E.R.A.S. F.C.S. 

Author of “ The Fuel of the Sunf “ A Simple 'Treatise on Heat, ” Ac. 

No. 8o OF FOVEFF’S EIBRABY, 

12iuo, handsome paper covers, Price, 20 Cents. 

“Mr. Mattieii Williams is undoubtedly able to present scientific subjects to 
the popular mind with much clearness and force ; and these essays may 'e 
read with advantage by those, who, without having had special training, are 3 et 
sufficiently intelligent to take interest in the movement of events in the scientific 
Academy. 

“The title of Jlr. Mattieu Williams’ ‘Science in Short Chapters’ exactly 
explains its subject. Clear and simple, these brief reprints from all sorts of 
periodicals are just what Angelina may profitably read to Edwin while he is 
sorting his papers, or trimming the lamps, if (like some highly domesticated 
Edwins') he insists on doingthat ticklish bitof honse-work himSelf.”— 

“ The papers are not niere rechauffes of common knowledge. Almost all of 
them are marked by original thought, and many of them contain demonstrations 
or apergus of considerable scientific value.” — Fall Mall Gazette, 

“The chaj)te;8 range from such subjects as science and spiritualism to the 
consumption of smoke. They include a dissertation on iron filings in tea, and 
they discuss the action of frost on Avater-pipes and on building materials. The 
volume begins Avith an article on the fuel of the sun, and before it is concluded' 
It deals Avith Count Rumford’s cooking stoves. All these subjects, and a great 
many more, are treated in apleasant, informatiA'e mann"er. Dir. Williams knows 
what he is talking about, and he says. Avhat he ha- to say in such a AA’ay as to 
prevent any possible mrsconception. The book Avill be ])rized by all who desire 
to have sound information on such subjects as those with Aviiicli it deals.” — 
Scotsman. 

“To the scientific Avorld Mr. Williams is best knoAAu by his solar studies, 
but here he is not Avriting so much for scientists as for the general i)ublic. It has 
been the aim of his life to popularise science, and his articles are so treated that 
his readers may become interested in them and find in their perusal a mental 
recreation.” — Sunday-school Chronicle. 

“ We highly recommend this most. entertaining and A'anable collection of 
papers. They combine clearness and simplicity, and are not wanting in philoso- 
phy likeAvise.'”— 

LIFE OF OLIVER CPfOE^iWELL, 

Ilis Life, Times, Battlefields, and Contemporaries, by 

PAXTON HOOD, 

Author of “ Christmas Evans, " “ Thomas Carlyle f "■ Eo7nance of 
Biography," &c. • 

V3 o± 3LO-V"H3ILL’S 

12mo, handsome paper cOA'crs, 15 CENTS. 

This is a popular biography of the career of Oliver CromAvell, Avhich Avill be 
Avelcomed by those Avhohre unable to pursue the stirring history of his life and 
times, in the elaborate volumes to Avhich the student is at present referred. 

For sale by all booksellers and ncAvsdealers, or sent free of postage on 
receipt o^ price by the publishers. 

JOHN W. LOVELL, CO., 

< 

14 and 16 Vesey St., New York. 


TWO GREAT NOVELS. 


GIDEON FLEYCE. 


By HENRt W. LUCY. 

1 vol. 12ino. Handsome Paper Covers. No. 96 of Lovell’s Library. 20c. 


“When ‘Gideon Fleyce’ has been read, the answer will be that Mr. 
Lucy has succeeded. He has devised an excellent plot, and he has told it ad- 
mirably. It is partly political ; it is partly a love story, though that element 
has comparatively a small .sliare in it ; and it is a novel of incident. Mr. Lucy’s 
comments upon political matters are delightful.” — Scotsman. 

“ This is one of the cleverest novels .we have read for a long time. The 
author is sure to take a high place among contemporary novelists, may perhaps 
some day prove his fitness to rank among the great masters of the craft.” — 
Sheffield Independent. 

‘ ‘ The novel has remarkable constructive excellence and striking situations. 
The flow of easy humour and the extraordinary perception of ihe ridiculous 
possessed by the autiior have here most facile display,”— Daily News. 

“A very clever novel, and full of promise as a first venture in fiction : a 
highly entertaining story, ‘ Gideon Fleyce ’ is so much above the average of 
novels that the accession of its author— especially as the creator of ‘‘ Napper,” 
to the rank of writers of fiction is deserving of a very heaity welcome.”— 
Academy. 

“That is a powerful scene, and the whole of the sensational plot of which 
this scene is the central point, is managed with an ingenuity worthy almost of 
Wilkie Collins.”— Spectator. 


“An excellent story, which has the double interest of an exciting plot 
with telling episodes and of very clever analysis of character.” — Times. 


THE GOLDEN SHAFT. 


By CHARLES GIBBON, Author of “Robin Gray,” &c. 

1vol. 12mo. Handsome Paper Covers. No. 57 of Lovell’s Library. 20c. 


“'Mr. Gibbon is to be congratulated on the character of ‘Fiscal ’ Musgrave, 
which is as original as it is lifelike, and as attractive as it is original. The 
situation which chiefly displays it is well imagined, powerfully worked out, 
and sufficiently striking in itself.” — Academy 

“ Excellent in every important respect ; the story is interesting, the plot 
is most ingeniously devised, the characters are cleverly conceived and con- < 
sistently drawn, while several of them stand out picturesquely m their quaint 

originality Altogether, w'e may certainly congratulate Mr. Gibbon on his 

book.”— S aturday Review. 

“ Mr. Gibbon is at his best in this story. It contains some really powerful 
situations, and its plot is well w'orked out. The conscientious difficulties of 
the Fiscal, the father of the charming herione. are w'ell developed by Mr. 
Gibbon, and the story w'ill be read with interest throughout.”— Manchester 
Examiner 

“ Altogether, the ‘ Golden Shaft ’ is gooc^ and fully equals, if it doesnotim- 
prove upon, anything Mr.^ibbon has previously written.^’— Glasgow Herald. 

‘ ‘It is pleasant to meet with a work by Mr. Gibbon that will remind his 
readers of the promise of his earliest efforts. The story of Thorburn and his 
family is full of power and pathos, as is the figure of the strong-natured 
Musgrave . ” — Athenaeum . 


“ On the whole, we have seen nothing before of Mr. Gibbon’s writing so 
good as this novel.” — D aily News. 


For sale by all Newsdealers and Booksellers. The Trade supplied by The 
American News Company and Branches. 




AVo LOVELL CO., 

i - 14 & 16 Vesey St,, New York., 






, .7 » * 

’ ■ 'fl' ' ' ■ ■ 



. v-V .- 


■■’PA ' * A' >;• '■ ■ ' V' 1 .'.ui 







v*'»r 




■■ y ^-!, ■ "iv" . ■ ,»'v. 


■tr;^ •.'?;*? ■■■ T'-iNSM^ W,*4'''i'' . 



i A 


♦'■' V. 




I > . , f *> ' 

r, »' ' ‘ ' T% '1 

*% ' . • V ^ >V " ^ 

iAvS ;">ii .; ^• 


{ 


Pt 


"A/ 



" A‘ 4^/ J' ■ \ ^ I ^ 'WfflB \ ^ * 




' ,.V 

.*1 77" ‘ 


' 's ■', .’•■ iO' 
•.>{)'■ \U'-: 


' •“^1 , . ■■• t V^'k-S'i 'r'l7W 

- A 7 ; 7 ''^ ^ ' 7 ' 


. v > y ^ _ 


A ^ '^1* l« 


- im« .' 'V V 

■' . I* • ■ 

•PLaKi 


*-» r 4 









' ' c<>~ ” 

'X' ^ cSvvA n'^t '' 

^ C ^ ^ ^ 



Pa y 





^r 

" ^ <7 





<* ■* 0 If K '*"' .A . 

.<X' f 0 N 

^ v'^ * 

■f > 1 *. A' < 








o N 0 A 


V 0 


% 

- /* . e I 


>* ^ 
«<• 

'6 ' ■ 

* 3 ^ ® * 1/7 ' 

'fKs^ -^yiK- 

'Ka A '*' 

^ o. \0 o 





> ,-v 





A I ^ k \^ ^ 

■^<'7 ^ y 7 

'■^ <1 X* ^ 



v' . s' V ’ ~ °lo'^° ^ ^*^'' * ' '' 

r 
o 
21 

cP o Yv'7')5'^W' " ^r> - 

. .V ' ^ > 

lU ^ 7 i 1 ^ 

^ <<», 4^“^ c-^\\ \n^. 

-- V 

^ o \0 q^ >. 

V ^ <>y7/i\\^ ^ • <)y 'cl' 

y A ^ '> 

% V s 



V * ’ ~ ’ f °- 


"^ " ''=^ V' '''■'<- 

-. A^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ n^yOyfr- 

t -c,- ^ k %■/. \V ^ 

V ^Cf ~ A 

N * VS ey ^ 


“ v\^‘ 

^ '\v 





, S -C ^ 0 . X ■» , A 

"■’*<?. c 

7 ' 

“ >.0 









* ' ^ c® ^ -f ” ' 0^ 

✓* €>► C **• 

* o o' » 

^ y’^v:>5s^ «, o ^ 

i*^ ^ <■ -<> 


k"% * ■;^_ < 1' 


'D^ ^ W/m^ >. aV V. 



j»> 

>. " 

y^ 

C^ y <r fN 

^ <V '5 VJ ^ 

.. NO 

1'^ ^ 53 s, %. . 



. s ^ ? 


,V 



. * X ^Y*' ** 

.'\ O ^ y . ^ ^0 < 

c'>'‘''« '‘^/‘ rO'^s •'"■•/•%. 

O 0 ^/y97rt_ ^ V 


0 ♦ .V. ■* /\ 



C#*- 





LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




